


You Birthed It

by katiemariie



Category: Farscape, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Canon Disabled Character, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Genocide, M/M, Multi, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back when Jim Kirk was just a bright-eyed cadet, Starfleet stumbled upon and subsequently destroyed the Scarran Imperium. Fifteen years later, Kirk begins his captaincy aboard the Enterprise, barely dealing with what he had to do during the war. Meanwhile, Aeryn Sun isn't too happy with her uniform, Scorpius is as ruthless as ever but wishes to be treated like a human being, and Braca just wants to be someone's plaything. Some things never change: Spock is very much on the outs from Vulcan society and McCoy can't seem to make friendly with aliens, even nice ones like Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kirk: A Young Man Goes to War

**Author's Note:**

> Fabulous art [here.](http://thefixedfoot.livejournal.com/40689.html)

_“Love. You're better off without it, and I'm better off without mine. This vessel, I give, she takes. She won't permit me my life. I've got to live hers.”_  
—Kirk, “The Naked Time”

–

It was supposed to be a peace mission. It was supposed to be a privilege. Kirk was the only fledge cadet chosen to witness the signing of the peace treaty between the Federation and Axanar. The other cadets were all upperclassmen, but Kirk was special.

Kirk was the only one who made it back home.

They were diverted to some distant part of the galaxy Kirk had never even heard of. He still isn't completely sure how the Enterprise found it, but the instructions they sent via subspace were light years ahead of anything Starfleet had or even knew about. The ships there—in the sector of space the Enterprise stumbled upon—they could achieve faster-than-light travel while in regular space. Hetch drive, they called it. Combining hetch and warp drives had a multiplicative effect; with one or another, it would take seventy years to reach that other side of the rainbow, but together... It was as simple as traveling to Mars for a three-day weekend.

One moment they were in the alpha quadrant, the next in the middle of a battle between the Enterprise and a fleet of giant, bulbous black ships in an expanse of stars never charted.

Kirk and any other available bodies on the Republic were beamed aboard one of the alien vessels. He remembers protesting on the transporter pad. “I don't have any combat training.”

The quartermaster handed him a phaser. “Can you hit the broadside of a barn?”

Kirk shrugged. “I'm from Iowa.”

“Good on ya, lad. Keep it set on stun.”

“Stun? Stun _what_?”

He felt the tingle of transport and when he materialized, he shot at the first creature he saw—a large, hulking dinosaur-like beast. And it disappeared. (Years later, when looking over the nomination papers for his Palm Leaf, Kirk learned the creature's name: Wolesh. He doesn't like to remember that.) Before firing off his next shot, Kirk checked his phaser—set on stun. That shouldn't have happened. The next few fell just the same.

It was clean and easy and for a while it was almost fun, like a holo-game.

But they didn't stop coming. They came in groups of ten, one after another for hours. They had to see that it was a lost cause—they had to see their comrades dying, but they wouldn't stop. They wouldn't be captured.

Kirk found a communications officer pleading with an alien commander over comms, but the universal translator was useless with them. (Kirk knows now that the Scarrans could understand every word they said and still rejected their terms. Sometimes that makes him feel better.)

Soon the vessel was cleared and then the whole fleet. Starfleet scavenged their technology, learned their weaknesses and their threat, and then... the threat was neutralized.

The Scarran species was gone. Except for a boy—a half-breed hidden away by Starfleet Medical whom no one thought would live to see adulthood.

Things could get back to normal. Kirk returned to the Academy and Starfleet returned to diplomacy and exploration, establishing treaties of peace or non-aggression with species in the newly-discovered sector of space. The Peacekeepers were quick to form an alliance after hearing that Humans were of the same genetic stock. The Federation was quick to accept for much the same reason. There were concessions, of course. The child soldiers would have to go. The Federation could reconcile itself with what the Peacekeepers did to the other species they ruled, but the images of little Human children sleeping with pulse rifles in their cots weren't quick to leave the Terran collective consciousness.

Kirk blames the press. He does that a lot now.

It seems nowadays a Starfleet officer can't piss without a press release. The whole damn fleet's immobilized by fear of setting off a media frenzy on even the most trivial of matters. Even worse, the admiralty seems to be going out of its way to generate positive buzz. It's beginning to interfere with the fleet's ability to protect the Federation and explore the galaxy.

Not to speak of the danger it places officers in.

What if, god forbid, there's a lab accident that starts a fire and the only person who can reach the extinguisher is the half-breed? Crew would die, because Lieutenant Scorpius can't withstand the heat. The same goes for the two Sebaceans. 

Kirk isn't against having aliens serving aboard his ship—Spock makes a fine first officer and would make for a good friend if he were the type to make friends—but when their... biological particularities endanger his crew and the Federation itself, that's where he draws the line.

And he is in no way bitter that none of these kids are at all grateful for what he and Spock and Scotty went through for their freedom and all the good men who died during the Scarran onslaught so they could serve in Starfleet.

(That's not entirely true. (Not the Kirk not being bitter part. That's the god's honest truth.) The twitchy one with the mask mourns the war dead with every meal, but he hardly counts given that he mourns _all_ the dead _all_ the time and he's not even in Starfleet. Kirk doesn't know who this person is beyond that his people were slaves and he's some kind of mystic contracted by the Federation to serve as chaplain. Kirk would care to learn more, but the man is so useless and irrelevant to everything happening right now that it is honestly not worth the effort. Bones says the kid's something special; Kirk thinks their old country doctor likes having someone to share death with.)

Kirk is self-aware enough to know that he hates them a little for being young and on their first assignment and looking forward to the rest of their lives. Kirk feels that way about Uhura and that Sulu from botany and Spock's relief officer from Russia. Yet he won't admit that this resentment isn't colored by the same righteous anger over what he lost for them. He can't begin to acknowledge that, when he looks at the two-and-a-half Sebaceans smiling as they eat their lunch together, he wants scream, “I saved you from that world and I was burned by it and none of you even have the decency to-to-to-” Kirk can't acknowledge it, he can't say it, so he powers through it by force of personality, joining them at their sacred table.

“Do you mind if I take a seat?” he asks all smiles.

“No, of course not, captain,” Braca says—servile in a way that makes Kirk's skin crawl.

Kirk swings his leg over the bench, hitting something hard that emits a clang and an 'eep!' When he looks, he sees Stark under the table eating a sandwich. Caught, he scuttles up to the surface, taking a seat between Sun and the Starchild. “Captain! I'm-I'm sorry my face hit your foot. I wasn't looking. I must admit I have a very inconvenient face at times. I'm told.”

“It's not a problem,” Kirk says. “I'm the one who should be sorry, it was my foot that hit your face. I should have looked where I was going. ...Is eating under the table a custom amongst your people?”

Stark shakes his head.

“I knew a Banik who did that,” Braca says. “My commanding officer's would crouch under her desk while she was eating to lick the crumbs off her boots.” He recalls this like a cherished childhood memory, which it probably is.

“Stark!” Bones calls from across the mess hall. “I didn't know you ate lunch. I never see you in here. 'Scuse me, Jim.” He takes a seat. “Figures it'd have to be the captain to finally be brave enough to sit with y'all. You know everyone's terribly intimidated by you.”

“Oh,” Sun says. “We know.”

“Then why do you all sit together then?”

“Why do all the Humans sit together?”

“Touché. Say, did anybody grab any hot sauce?” At their blank looks... “Oh, right. Wrong crowd.”

Walking behind Scorpius, Scotty stops mid-stride and stares at the table. “I dinna know we were allowed to sit here.”

Bones scooches over. “C'mon, Scotty. They don't bite.”

“If that's alright with all of ye...”

“By all means,” Scorpius says.

Scotty grins widely. “Thank you kindly. This is a nice table.”

“It is the best table,” Braca says matter-of-factly.

“Is that so?” McCoy asks.

“Yes.”

“Braca tested all the tables our first night aboard,” Aeryn says, smirking, “and presented me with the best one.”

“As a token of friendship and to signify my confidence in her leadership abilities.” It isn't often that a male officer defers so openly to a younger female officer. It isn't often that Kirk's officers give each other tables either. Is that a Peacekeeper thing?

“So, where are you all from?” Jim asks. “I know you were all born on starships, but where were you settled?”

“England,” Braca says.

“Oh. Where?”

“Off the western coast of Europe.”

“No. I mean, where in England?”

“Surrey, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Scorpius?”

“Buckinghamshire.”

“And you're from England, as well, Lieutenant Sun?”

“No,” she answers. “France.”

“Really? I was sure I detected a British accent.”

“This is how everyone speaks Standard in France. At least in Haute-Saône.”

“My people were placed in Australia,” Stark says. “The Federation tried to put us on Vulcan, but our temperaments... were not compatible. I think it was the crying. I've found most Federation species are intimidated by men who weep openly... Humans among them.”

“I wouldna say we're intimidated,” Scotty says.

“It's just we've got different standards of behavior,” Bones explains. “Crying is something a man does alone. In private.”

“Like masturbation,” Aeryn says. At their shocked expressions... “Don't tell me you don't do that.”

“Uh...”

“So, er, er...” Scotty stammers. “What do your parents do?” He directs this unfortunate question to Scorpius, of course.

“Are you frelling kidding me?” Scorpius asks in an impossibly even tone.

“I mean, er...”

“My parents,” Aeryn cuts in, “are flitter pilots.”

“I was raised as a proper Peacekeeper—” Aeryn gives Braca's shoulder a shove. “—so I was never introduced to my gamete donors.”

“I was sold away from my mother as soon as I was weaned,” Stark says. “I haven't been able to find her.”

“Geez,” Bones grumbles. “Way to bring the room down, Scotty.”

“Sorry,” Scott says. “I dinna know it was such a sensitive subject.”

“Captain.” Spock steps behind Kirk. “There's a matter on the bridge that requires your attention.”

“Of course.” Kirk extricates himself from the bench, managing not to maim anyone in the process. “Mr. Spock, have you eaten lunch yet?”

“No, I have not.”

“I'll handle matters on the bridge. You take my place. I'm sure you and Mr. Scorpius will have a lot to talk about.”

Walking towards the turbolift, Kirk swears he can hear Scorpius mutter, “Are you frelling kidding me?”

–

Kirk is willing to stake credits on the first man to say, “It's lonely at the top,” being the captain of his own vessel. Kirk has never had a hard time making friends. He's extremely charming and endlessly likable, if you ask him. But finding true intimacy with another person now only comes to him fleetingly in the company of women, in ships passing in the night. And since Kirk can't fraternize with the women in his crew... well, let's just say he isn't a very active seaport lately.

Between shore leaves and the random assortment of women he meets on missions, Kirk's need for strong, emotional contact with another being goes unaddressed. He can mingle and chat with his senior officers, but there's no one on board with whom he can share his doubts and insecurities and simple rage. The war is something that stays locked up inside his head.

The only two people who were there, who saw the endless parade of dead Scarrans, are Spock and Scotty. Kirk can't exactly go pouring his heart out to a Vulcan (that might actually constitute some kind of harassment, but he's not sure) and, while Scotty would no doubt understand what Kirk's going through, the closer Jim gets to him, the harder it is to maintain plausible deniability of knowing that Scotty is an alcoholic.

Kirk supposes he could go to Bones about it—he really does like the guy—but spilling all of his secrets to the one person on board who can relieve him of command with impunity doesn't seem that wise of an idea. Kirk has already lost command of his ship once since their mission began a few months ago and he isn't willing to repeat the experience.

The polywater was unexpected—the effect it had on Jim even more so. He always thought he loved the Enterprise; he never thought he would abandon his seat commanding her and spend the next two hours as she hurtled into a planet berating her for stealing his youth, his personal life, and joy for living. He also never expected he would break just about all of his knuckles pummeling her bulkheads. All while anthropomorphizing her as a woman.

“What do you suppose that means?” Jim asks, coming up for air.

Natira cradles the back of his head. “I imagine you have some unresolved issues about women.” She pulls tight on his hair, making him see stars. “You're welcome to work them out on me.”

It seems like that's the answer—that he's finally found someone to share himself with, to become a better person alongside. Then while he's sleeping, she tries to eat his eyeballs.

Another relationship ends, another begins.

“I  _am_  the female of the species, you know that don't you?”

“No, but now that now that I do...”

After, when they're putting their boots back on, Jim asks, “Do you ever punch your ship?”

Staanz grins lopsidedly. “Only to make her run.”

“So she's a female then?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Gender and sex aren't as, er, constant in my culture as there are in yours.”

Jim holds up a finger, about to ask if Staanz will still be the female of the species tomorrow morning, but finds that he doesn't really care. That's new.

“What?”

“Nothing... Do you ever _resent_ your ship?”

“Resent her? She's my home, my livelihood, my purpose. She's the only thing keeping me from starvin' or getting caught up by the Peacekeepers. ...Er, forget I said that last part, would ya, Starfleet?”

“It's forgotten.”

“Good. Throw me my coat, eh? Thanks. You don't...” She pulls her coat on over her head. “You don't feel the same about your lady, the Enterprise?”

“I thought I did, but now... It seems like I've dedicated my entire life to keeping her afloat and for nothing in return.”

“But she keeps you afloat, too.”

“If that's true, why do I feel like I'm drowning?”

That level of insight is frankly terrifying and Kirk finds himself almost relieved when he and Staanz are forced to go their separate ways. 

He's on his own until shore leave six months later, and after spending it in the arms of two different women (one who tried to gobble him up (literally) and another who tried to turn him into an illicit hallucinogenic), Kirk is beginning to think burying his worries in the closest available bosom isn't too healthy for him or his Starfleet career. He gets confirmation (and a minor heart attack) when Scotty greets him back on board with, “Capt'n, have you heard about the sex tape?”

“Sex tape?” Jim asks, feeling all the blood drain from his face.

“Aye, it's all over the intrafleet network.”

“Who made it public? Natira? The other Natira? Elaan? Linfer?” Those are the only women Kirk remembers making a sex tape with, but there could be any number of women who filmed him without his knowledge.

“I could nae say, but my credits are on Braca.”

“Braca? _Helmsman_ Braca?”

“Aye. Seems the type who'd want a few moments of fame... even if it was for giving it to the Starchild.”

Kirk takes a breath, glad that it's two of his lieutenants starring in Starfleet's fastest circulating sex tape and not him, before clenching at the realization that two of his lieutenants are starring in Starfleet's fastest circulating sex tape. My god, the paperwork.

–

“Gentlemen, take a seat.” They sit—Scorpius looks steaming mad and Braca looks like he's got two months to live. “Now, let me start by saying that neither of you are in trouble. Our preliminary investigation has determined that it was someone employed at your hotel who rigged the room with film equipment and distributed the video to the press. And, while it is certainly embarrassing for Starfleet, nothing you did on that video was illegal. Not on that planet anyway.” His attempt at humor doesn't brighten their moods. Braca doesn't even chortle and he laughs at every joke (no matter how funny) told by anyone of a higher rank. “Starfleet and the local authorities are pursuing a full investigation and if— _when_ the perpetrator is apprehended, the district attorney intends on prosecuting them to the fullest extent of the planet's law.”

“Will we have to testify?” Scorpius asks.

“I'm not sure. But if you do, it will be through subspace communication. The planet makes special allowances for victims of sex crimes. Now, I will completely understand if either of you wish to transfer to another posting. I can't guarantee that it will be to another starship or that Starfleet will be able to place you together, but—”

“We're not leaving,” Scorpius says.

Kirk looks to Braca, struggling to make eye contact as the lieutenant stares down at the desk between them. “Braca, is that what you want?”

“Yes, captain. I shan't give up a position aboard the Federation flagship when everyone at my new posting will have seen the recording as well. And I have friends here.”

“Lieutenant, I assure you, not every member of Starfleet, or even every member of this crew has seen the recording.”

“Captain, I must respectfully disagree. Even if they haven't seen the recording, they know what happens in it because their friends have told them about it.”

“I can't stop anyone from talking about the video, but Starfleet has removed it from their servers. Members of my crew found in possession of the video will be punished. If you begin to face any harassment, report it directly to me and I will—” 

“Treat our complaints with the same gravity as you have in the past,” Scorpius finishes, sneering.

“What exactly do you mean by that, lieutenant?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“You said it. And we both know you never say anything if you know you won't get something out of it.”

Scorpius leans forward in his chair. “I merely meant that perhaps your process of addressing crew complaints is less efficient when said crew are, shall we say, _less than Human_.”

“If you're implying that I take the complaints of my non-Human crew any less seriously than that of my Human—”

“I wasn't implying, I was stating rather directly. I thought I was being quite clear about that.”

“Mr. Scorpius,” Kirk says sharply. “I realize that you have recently been violated in a horrific and most public fashion and are likely in a good deal of distress, but you are still a member of my crew and will behave as such—and that includes giving your captain his due respect. Do you understand?”

“Aye aye, captain.”

–

Kirk chafes underneath his dress uniform. Doing damage control from his ready room has never been his idea of a good time and given the subject matter... 

It's the hottest topic on Terra, so he makes the main civilian newswire. He realizes that Starfleet wants to reach the largest audience possible, but that wire's head correspondent is known for a mean conservative streak.

“Captain Kirk,” the correspondent says, beginning the interview portion, “how would you respond to claims that the acts depicted on the recording are unbecoming of a Starfleet officer?”

“I would respond by asking those people how they know what's on that recording.”

“In a poll conducted on our website, we've found that most of our viewers learned about the recording's content from communiques sent by a religious organization or citizen's group they belong to—most of which were warning against allowing their children to join Starfleet. How do you respond to that?”

“I would say that Starfleet neither encourages nor condemns the acts on that recording.”

“So Starfleet doesn't condemn pedophilia?”

“Pedophilia? To the best of my knowledge there were no children on that recording.”

“Except for the Starchild.”

“The Starchild—Lieutenant Scorpius is a twenty-nine-year-old man who I am sure would appreciate a new nickname.”

“Due to his hybrid genetics and _unique_ physiology, age might not be an accurate predictor of his mental and physical maturity. For all intents and purposes, Lieutenant Scorpius could still be a child.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Lieutenant Scorpius is not a child. You and your newswire's continued need to infantilize him denies him the respect he deserves as a member of my crew, as the Federation's pre-eminent neurobiological cyberneticist, and as a sexual being capable of healthy, adult relationships.”

“Healthy adult relationships? Have you seen the tape?”

“No. It would be unbecoming of a Starfleet captain to watch his crewmen engage in sex acts filmed without their permission.”

“So you are not aware that those sex acts include...” The correspondent reads from a padd, “nipple play, fisting, biting, ingestion of bodily fluids including blood, bondage, spanking, erotic asphyxiation, role play, and acts that can only be described as a fusion of sado-masochism and Russian ballet.”

“As I said, I haven't watched the tape and I doubt I ever will, because those acts, as long as they were between two consenting adults, are none of my or Starfleet's business.”

“We have reason to believe that those acts were not between two consenting adults. My show has featured experts who agree that, based on the evidence presented in the video, Mr. Scorpius' genitals are not those of an adult ma—”

“That's quite enough, Mr. Harding. I didn't agree to appear on your show to discuss one of my crewmen's genitals. If you're going to continue to turn this egregious invasion of Lieutenants Scorpius and Braca's privacy into a source of ad revenue, you will have to find another man to get your sound bites from.” Kirk cuts the comm link.

–

“Gentlemen, take a seat.” They sit—Scorpius is still steaming mad and Braca looks oddly proud of himself even as he tries not to stain Kirk's furniture with his blood. “Now, let me start by asking, _what the hell were you thinking?_ ”

“It was self-defense,” Braca says.

“You sucker-punched Ensign Loren while he was eating lunch.”

“I perceived a threat and dealt with it accordingly.”

“And that included inviting your boyfriend over to deal with Loren's pals?”

Scorpius holds up a hand—his glove is coated with dried blood. “I acted of my own volition.”

“That I'm quite sure,” Kirk says. “I don't think there's a man aboard this vessel who could make you do anything you didn't want to.”

“Thank you, captain.”

“That wasn't a compliment.” Kirk folds his hands, resting them on top of his desk. “You know what your problem is, Mr. Scorpius? You have no sense of loyalty. I went to bat for you on Harding's show. I put my neck on the line to protect your dignity. And this is how you repay me. How exactly do you think moral guardians like Harding are going to spin your court-martial?”

–

“Jim, you can't court-martial these boys.”

“Bones.” Jim puts down his padd. “They instigated a fight with three other crew mates. Scorpius would've beaten Roberts into a coma if Spock and Stark hadn't pulled him off.”

“That's true. I'm not denying that. But the circumstances...”

“The circumstances, Dr. McCoy, are that we've got three men in sickbay beaten without provocation by—”

“That's not true. Braca was provoked and-and a man in his condition could hardly be—”

“What condition would that be?”

“Traumatized. He's been through a great deal lately. Frankly, I'm surprised this didn't happen earlier. In fact, I'd been seriously considering putting him in therapy when this incident occurred. For reasons of mental health, I'd say he isn't liable for his actions. Especially considering what Loren said.”

“And Mr. Scorpius? Are you telling me you let _two_ mentally unstable, deeply traumatized crew members go without treatment?”

“No. I didn't say that. Mr. Scorpius is in impeccable mental health.” Kirk snorts. “But there is the small matter of his Scarran heritage.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget I ever said anything.”

“Bones.”

“It's not my secret to tell.”

“If there's something about Scorpius' Scarran biology that makes him attack people indiscriminately, then I need to know about it.”

“It's not the biology that's the secret. I've been told something in confidence by a patient about their personal life that I couldn't possibly tell you without a serious breach of professional ethics. But... if we're speaking in the realm of the hypothetical...”

“Which we are. Of course.”

“Then I could tell you that a _hypothetical_ Scarran male would _hypothetically_ be compelled biologically to defend a mate with undue force—if he was _hypothetically_ bonded to that mate through a Scarran blood vow.”

“And this hypothetical Scarran male, he would have no control over this impulse?”

“Not at first, no. But over time, he would learn how to control it. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course. And if this hypothetical male were to be court-martialled for assaulting someone due to this impulse, he would have a pretty strong defense.”

“And a pretty strong case for species-based discrimination.”

“So it would be in Starfleet's best interest not to pursue disciplinary action against the hypothetical Scarran.” Kirk leans back in his chair, scratching at his chin. “I don't know if we can trust Loren, Roberts, and LuPone not to go above my head with this.”

“Well, right now, it seems Loren, Roberts, and LuPone are less concerned with getting justice and more concerned about no one else hearing that they got the tar beaten out of them by a couple of fairies.”

–

The sex tape scandal and its accompanying ass-kicking fade slowly from the crew's consciousness, but Kirk's troubles with the Sebaceans don't end there.

“Lieutenant, take a seat.” She sits, not exactly quaking in her standard issue boots. If anything, she looks inconvenienced. “You understand why you're here.”

“Not entirely, no.”

“I received a number of complaints about your hand-to-hand combat tutorials.”

“I warned them about the difficulty level. If they're sore, that's their own fault.”

“The complaints were about your... teaching methods.”

“Ah, I admit I was probably a bit harsh the first lesson, but if they came back the second week they would see—”

Kirk holds up a hand. “Lieutenant Sun, you called Humans 'weak.'”

“Yes.”

He clearly isn't getting close to getting through to her. “You said, according to one complaint, 'As a whole, the Human species is relatively weak.'”

“Yes.”

“You don't see the problem with making such a statement.”

“No.”

“But, if someone said, 'As a whole, the Sebacean species is relatively weak,' would you have a problem with that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You see, that's the same as when you said Humans are weak.”

Sun shakes her head, wrinkling her forehead. “It's completely different.”

“How? How are those two statements different?”

“Well, one is the truth and the other is not.”

Kirk sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “My point, Mr. Sun, is that it is wrong to make broad, sweeping generalizations about a species. Or any group of people.”

“Even if they're true?”

“That's why it's wrong. Broad, sweeping generalizations are never true. Especially when they're about people.”

“So, you wouldn't say that Vulcans are logical or that Sebaceans are hierarchical?” She doesn't leave him room to answer. “Because that's exactly what my textbooks at the Academy said.”

“But saying it about Humans doesn't make that right. That's just reverse spacism.”

Sun rolls her eyes. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Permission granted.”

“Captain, I sincerely believe that the future of Starfleet as a military organization depends on Humans acknowledging their inherent physical weakness. If Humans continue to believe that they are normal—that they are the default sentient being—they will continue to overestimate their capabilities, they will continue to make stupid decisions, and they will continue to die at appalling rates in landing parties.”

“Human weakness isn't what killed your crew mates. And using their deaths to support your spacist agenda is... Do you think I like writing letters of consolation to parents?”

“With the frequency that you write them, I would say, yes.”

–

“It's that damn girl!” Jim says, climbing off the biobed. “The Peacekeeper.”

Across sickbay, Spock raises an eyebrow. “I fail to see how Lieutenant Sun could be responsible for your physiological state.”

Bones snorts. “That's your problem, Mr. Spock. You don't get how a beautiful woman could get a man's blood pumping a little faster.”

“It's not that,” Jim says. “Commanding her and the other two Sebaceans is like herding cats. They keep scratching and pissing on me.”

“Captain?” Spock asks.

“Figuratively, Mr. Spock.”

“You ever have any troubles with the other one?” Kirk asks McCoy. “I know he likes to hang around here.”

“Stark? No, he's good kid. A little squirrelly, but he's good with the dying. Makes it easier on them somehow. Although, now that you mention it, I do find him hiding in the supply cabinets sometimes. I don't know what that's about.”

“He finds confined spaces comforting.” At their curious looks, Spock adds, “I would assume.”

Kirk shakes his head. “That's nothing. Scorpius is ruthless, Sun is smug, and Braca follows them both around like a puppy dog.”

“Captain, you're mixing mammalian metaphors.”

“What?” Kirk mouths.

“A few minutes ago they were cats and now Braca's a puppy,” McCoy translates.

“Ah. Fair enough. Spock, uh, have you had any trouble working with Scorpius? You _are_ his direct superior.”

“Mr. Scorpius is, as you said, ruthless. He thinks of little but himself and now it seems Lieutenant Braca. However his job performance is adequate. My only complaint would be that he frequently ignores the chain of command to gain approval for his _creative_ interpretations of Starfleet's sentient subject policy.”

“He goes over your head?” Kirk asks.

“Yes, I believe that is the Human expression.”

“Straight to Admiral Pike, I'd imagine,” Bones says.

“That assumption would be correct, doctor.”

“You and Chris are close. You served under him for years,” Jim says. “I'm sure if you asked he would redirect Scorpius' requests back to you.”

“That is highly doubtful. My professional relationship with the admiral is far less extensive than Scorpius' personal relationship with him.”

“You know,” McCoy starts, “for an orphan, Scorpius sure does benefit from nepotism.”

“Doctor, I believe the more appropriate word for this situation would be 'cronyism.'”

“I know what word I wanted. Pike's practically a father to Scorpius. Hell, he's even listed as the kid's emergency contact.”

“And Pike no doubt feels a great debt of gratitude to Scorpius,” Jim adds. “That fancy wheelchair he designed gave Chris his life back.”

“Time will tell whether Scorpius' invention has a lasting, positive effect on Admiral Pike's quality of life,” Spock says.

“I think someone's a little mad they didn't think of it first.”

“Anger is a Human emotion, which I do not experience. And if I were to experience Human emotion, would happiness not be the most logical one for this situation given the profound effect Scorpius' invention has on Pike's life even in the short-term?”

“Human emotions are rarely logical.”

“Nor are the emotions of most sentient species—one of many things I have discovered aboard the Enterprise.”

“Somehow I don't think that's what Starfleet has in mind when they talk about a mission of discovery.”

“Nonsense,” Bones says. “We're out here to discover each other as much as we are to discover new species. It's not just finding 'strange, new life' or 'life but not as we know it' that counts as discovery. It's working together, living in close quarters, finding out what makes someone tick. Those are maybe the most important discoveries of all, especially with the kids from Peacekeeper Space on board.”

“They seem to be trying their damnedest to 'discover' what makes me tick,” Jim says. “Between the three of them, they're sending me to an early grave, I swear.”

“You don't need to tell me that,” Bone says. “I saw your bioreadings.”

“It's that girl. She's impulsive, stubborn, convinced she's right, plays fast and loose with regulations, and what's worse she drags half the crew along into her half-baked crusades.”

“Well, I can see why she makes you anxious. In a few years, she'll have your job.”

“I have to agree with the doctor,” Spock says. “If your promotion is any indication, those are exactly the qualities Starfleet looks for in the captain of the flagship.”

“You can't possibly be comparing me to...” Kirk shakes his head. “She was naked on the bridge!”

“As were you.”

“You heard about that?”

“Jim.” McCoy lays a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Everyone's heard about that.”

“That was a diplomatic necessity. For the good of the Federation.”

“I imagine Lieutenant Sun believes the same about her incident of nudity,” Spock says.

“Sometimes the things we hate in others are the very things that make us who we are,” Bones says.

“Self-loathing _is_ a rather common Human emotion.”

Kirk looks at his chief medical officer and then at his second-in-command. “I don't think I like the two of you ganging up on me with insight.”

“Insight, huh?” McCoy grins openly. “I got something in my quarters that makes insight go down nice and easy.” He wraps an arm around Jim's shoulders, leading him out of sickbay. “Real, gen-yoo-ine Kentucky bourbon. Single barrel.”

“If that's what the doctor orders...”

McCoy looks over his shoulder. “You're coming, too, Spock. I can't keep the insight coming all night on my own.”

“Vulcans do not drink alcohol,” Spock says. “Even if it is 'real, genuine Kentucky bourbon.'”

“Well, we'll just have to rustle you up some of that fizzy water you like so much. The kind you Vulcans think the rest of us don't know gets you drunk.”

“Altair water does not have an intoxicating effect on Vulcans.”

“Prove it. My quarters. Now. You can even bring that silly chess set of yours.”

“You play?” Kirk asks.

“No, but you do. And I'm too much of a scientist to miss an opportunity to test the age-old question of whether a Human can beat a Vulcan in a game of logic when they're both three sheets to the wind.”

“A question the medical research community is no doubt waiting with bated breath to see resolved,” Spock says, coming up to Jim's side.

“Are you sassin' me, Spock?” McCoy glances at Jim. “I'm being sassed by a Vulcan in my own sickbay.”

“Let's get out of here.” Jim smiles at Spock. “Before Dr. McCoy is shattered by humiliation.”

“Agreed, captain.”


	2. Aeryn: Watch What Happens

_“I am not a scientist. I am, however, what I have always been and that is superior.”_  
—Aeryn Sun, “Thank God It's Friday, Again”

–

The most important thing you can know about Aeryn Sun is that she has fourteen younger siblings. Everything that follows or precedes that fact is illuminated by it.

Very few Peacekeepers took the option to raise their biological offspring created during their service. Even fewer did so as a couple. Even fewer still decided to have more children. As far as Aeryn knows, her parents are the only Peacekeepers to ever produce and rear enough children to form their own rugby team.

Aeryn spent most of her childhood and nearly all of her adolescence playing Mum Junior, supplementing her parents' love and attention for her younger siblings. Sometimes she felt as if she did more to raise them than her parents. There were a million better things she could have been doing with her time—a fact she relayed to her mother and father every chance she got, but they would invariably respond with some platitude about getting practice in before she had fifteen or sixteen children of her own.

As if.

Talyn and Xhalax were absolutely convinced that Aeryn's first, best destiny was to pop out as many pureblood Sebacean sprogs as possible. (Which they estimated was somewhere around fifteen in a loving, two parent home. Neither ever seemed to consider that fifteen was only possible if one was playing mother and father to the the other fourteen.) There's no greater joy in life, they'd say, than finding someone to love (the fact that this “someone” would have to be more Sebacean than Sebacean remained unsaid) and making children out of that love. They just wanted Aeryn to be happy.

And perhaps take over Terra with a legion of Sebacean offspring. Talyn and Xhalax severely underestimated their daughter's admittedly short Peacekeeper training if they thought she never listened in on the meetings they held in the kitchen every month or so with the few other Peacekeepers who left with their children for Terra. And they severely underestimated her schooling on Terra if they thought she couldn't parse phrases like, “demographic war.” If concerns over the health of the Federation treaty with the Peacekeepers kept the Peacekeepers on Earth from using their superior combat skills to reclaim what was once their planet, then they would have to rely on their superior breeding skills.

A Sebacean woman could have five children in the time it took a Human to birth just one—and with a fifth of the pain a Human experienced, too. If every Sebacean couple pushed themselves to their carrying capacity, then the planet would be won within a few generations. Or so Aeryn's parents believed. They didn't count on their children having lives of their own and ambitions beyond frelling for the species.

Aeryn doesn't take much stock in Peacekeeper propaganda, but she knows deep in her bones that the Peacekeepers were right about one thing: she is a pilot. She was born to be a pilot. Not a mother, not a babysitter, not a living incubator for the resistance. A pilot. And a pilot now, not in forty years when she's filled her quota of genetically superior offspring. Her mother is wrong. It can't wait. Aeryn can't wait.

As soon as she can, she leaves—in the middle of the night without a word. Only a note pinned to the food synthesizer: “Going to Starfleet. Remember to pick Aewik up from football practice on Tuesday.”

And she's off. To the States. To San Francisco. To Starfleet Academy.

She isn't the first Sebacean to attend. There's a male—Mike? Milo? Then something with a B?—who's a few years ahead of Aeryn who holds that honor. Their paths never cross at the Academy but she sees him fly once with the Nova Squadron her first year. He's good. Maybe even better than Aeryn, so she decides right then that if he's a member of Nova Squadron then she would be the leader of Nova Squadron. In two years, she's calling maneuvers while what's-his-face is stuck on the ground, programming the Academy's flight simulators.

Shows him. What's-his-face.

If Aeryn can't be the first, she'll be the best.

She spends four years at the Academy competing with the first guy's record, ending up at the top of her class, and getting promoted to lieutenant almost right after graduation. And then she's assigned to the Enterprise, where she hears he'll be serving, too. The night before she moves into her quarters on board, she psychs herself up to meet this giant she built in her own mind—this senior officer with a decade of training as a Peacekeeper cadet.

She tracks him down eating lunch by himself, reading a padd. “Excuse me,” she says, “are you Lieutenant Brah-kah?”

“Braca, yes.” He smiles up at her. That's her first sign that she was completely wrong about him. Peacekeepers don't smile. That's not completely true. Only a certain type of Peacekeeper smiles. “And you must be Lieutenant Aeryn Sun. Class of 2265. Recently promoted. Born aboard the Icarian command carrier to Xhalax Sun and Talyn Lyczak. Grew up in La Barre, France. Is that correct?”

She would be unnerved or even challenged by a man with that much intel on her, but Braca looks up at her as if he is waiting for something—approval, maybe—like a child presenting a drawing to his mother, hoping she'll pin it to the food synthesizer.

“That's right,” she says. “You looked me up.”

“I looked everyone on my shift up.”

“Ambitious.”

“To a fault, I'm told.” He rests his padd on the table. “Would you like to take a seat?”

“Sure.” She sits on the bench across from him.

“It's good to find another Sebacean.”

Time will tell on that one.

–

The next morning at their shift's breakfast, he calls her over to a table in the middle of the mess hall. “I saved you a seat. Actually, I saved you the entire table. It's yours if you wish. I doubt any of these Humans would dare sit at the favored table of a Peacekeeper. At least not one of your breeding and reputation.” He might as well bare his throat and lie on his back.

“Are you trying to frell me? Because I don't recreate with Sebaceans.”

Braca leans in, grinning shyly. “Neither do I. Not anymore, at least.”

“What changed your mind? Or, should I say, who changed your mind?”

He shrugs. “I suppose I grew tired of being treated like an acceptable loss. Peacekeepers don't take very good care of their... playthings.”

“And you want to be more than someone's plaything.”

“Lieutenant Sun, I want nothing more than to be someone's plaything.”

“Kinky.” She smiles. “You can call me Aeryn, by the way.”

“Thank you. I will.”

She raises her eyebrows, staring at him expectantly.

“Oh, of course. You can call me Braca. No one uses my first name.”

“Not even your parents?”

“I don't have any of those... Do you?”

“Yes, two, in fact.”

“How novel.” He puts down his fork. “Did you live in a single-family residence with them?”

“A house? Yes.”

“Strange.”

“If you think that's strange, you should hear about my siblings.”

“Siblings?”

“Brothers and sisters.”

“I know what 'siblings' means. I've just never met a Sebacean who had any.”

“I have fourteen.”

“Four... teen?”

She nods.

“That's _disgusting_.”

“You should see them at the dinner table.”

“And your parents _chose_ to produce that many?”

“Yes. According to them, we were all conceived out of love.”

“My god. I understand doing it once, but fifteen times?”

“Have I irrevocably damaged you with this information?”

“You may have.”

There's a tap on Aeryn's shoulder. “Excuse me.” She turns and sees _something_. Whoever it is looks like grub wrapped in a leather jumpsuit complete with a ski mask. “Are you Sebacean?”

“Yes.” She looks him up and down. “And what might you be?”

“Er.”

“Aeryn,” Braca says, “that's Lieutenant Scorpius, the Starchild.”

She looks up at the half-breed. “I thought you died.” 

“As did I,” Braca adds. “Someone told me your innards exploded after you ingested fizzy candy with a carbonated beverage.”

“The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated,” the Starchild says. “May I sit?”

“Sure,” Aeryn says. “Might as well have all the Sebaceans in one place. Everyone will know where to stare.”

“You have a Banik on your back,” Braca says to Scorpius. Aeryn cranes her neck around the table and there is indeed a Banik stuck on Scorpius' back like a shadow, bowing to a crouch as Scorpius sits.

“Hmm?” Scorpius looks over his shoulder. “Oh, yes. That would be Stark. He's...”

“Shy?” Aeryn offers.

“Incomprehensible.”

“Is he yours?” Braca asks, tilting his head toward Stark.

“My what exactly?”

“Your slave.”

“Starfleet officers are forbidden from owning slaves.”

“But you're the Starchild, surely you'd be exempt from such restrictions.”

“He's not my slave.”

Braca glances over at Stark, his upper lip curled into a snarl. “Then what is he doing here?”

“He's the ship chaplain,” Scorpius answers.

“They're letting _Baniks_ into Starfleet?” Aeryn asks. “I might have to resign my commission.”

“I—I'm not in Starfleet,” Stark says, stepping out from behind Scorpius. “I'm a civilian contractor.”

“Someone's _paying_ you?” Aeryn asks, stifling a laugh.

“No, no. Of course, not. That would—that would be obscene. Stykera do not hold possessions in this realm.”

At the word “Stykera,” Aeryn and Braca flinch away from Stark. “You're Stykera?” Braca asks.

“Yes.”

Aeryn snorts. “Why doesn't Starfleet just ask Death itself to come aboard?”

“That's only superstition. Stykera don't attract death.”

“No, you suck it in through your face.”

“God,” Braca sighs. “How many of us do they think are going to die, if they think _he's_ necessary?”

–

The night before her first shift on the bridge, Aeryn tries on her new uniform and attempts to rewrite the laws of physics to make it at least pass as something a dignified officer on the Federation flagship would wear to work. Where is she supposed to put her phaser? How can she be expected to sit down without flashing her arse to the entire bridge? Raised by two Peacekeepers, Aeryn isn't too concerned with showing her skin in the line of duty, but “immodest exposure” is against the uniform code. The same uniform code that demands she wear a blouse desperately (and unsuccessfully) aspiring to be a dress.

After half an arn, she gives up and knocks on Braca's door.

“I need your trousers.”

–

The moment Aeryn steps on the bridge, Mr. Spock says, “Lieutenant Sun, you are out of uniform.”

“I'm wearing the uniform for my rank and personnel type.”

“But not for your gender.”

“Mr. Sun,” the captain says, “you have ten minutes to return in the women's uniform.”

“Captain,” Aeryn says, realizing this is the first time they've ever spoken, “the women's uniform is completely impractical. I can't do my job if I have to tug my skirt down every five minutes.”

“If you have complaints, you can direct them to the admiralty. I may be captain, but I don't have any say in uniform code. Now, go get changed.”

“Yes, sir.” She heads to the turbolift, feeling his eyes on her eema. She's heard the stories; she doesn't have to guess why he wants her in that uniform. She steps into the lift, contemplating her options. Contact the admiralty? As if they would ever do anything; they're the ones who approved the uniforms. A bunch of old men ready and willing to put their female personnel in skimpy skirts. What did they care? They didn't have to wear them, they just got to watch. (And Aeryn does admit that watching women in the uniforms holds a certain appeal.) And if they want to watch—if Kirk and Spock want to watch—then she'll give them a show.

When she walks back onto the bridge a moment later, she isn't in uniform. She isn't in anything but her regulation boots.

The bridge crew silently watches her take her seat at navigation—except for Braca at the helm, who mutters in Sebacean, “What are you doing?”

“Protesting,” she clicks back.

“Lieutenant Sun,” Spock says, “you are out of uniform.”

“Am I?”

“You are _severely_ out of uniform.”

“Really? Because I honestly can't tell the difference between this and the women's uniform.”

“Mr. Sun,” Kirk says, “put some clothes on or get off my bridge.”

“No.” She stands up at her station. “I refuse to get dressed until the uniform policy is revised. And anyone who agrees with me can join me in nudity.” She glares down at Braca. “ _Anyone._ ”

Braca mumbles something in Sebacean like, “Why? Why me?” as he stands and strips.

“There. You can't put all of us in the brig.”

–

As the containment field activates, Braca—naked as the day he was born—murmurs to his cellmate, “I blame you for this.”

Aeryn crosses her arms over her chest—not out of modesty, but out of defensiveness. “You didn't have go along with it.”

“You _told_ me to do it.”

“You could have said no.”

“I don't say no!” He rests his forehead against the cell's aft bulkhead and mumbles, “Not to people I trust.”

Aeryn turns her back on him. She didn't come this far to pick up another younger brother. It's not her fault that Braca's some hapless doormat waiting for the next person to tell him what to do. And that's what he is. It's written all over his face. Aeryn saw it the first day they met.

And she still asked him to put his career on the line for her, knowing full well that he would do whatever she said, because he's hopelessly obsequious and, to look at the man, probably never had a friend in his life before he met her.

Aeryn sighs and goes to him, pulling him away from the bulkhead and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “It'll be okay. Kirk is only bluffing like the pompous arse he is. We'll be out of here in no time.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

No, she doesn't mean a word of it, but the most she can do for Braca now is lie to him. Give him few moments of hope before he watches his career circle the drain.

Aeryn has started mentally drafting a letter to her parents explaining why she'll be in the stockade at Jaros II for the next three to five years, when the Stykera arrives with a miracle: his naked body. That, in its bare aesthetics, isn't the miracle. (He isn't much to look at; like most Baniks, he hasn't managed to move past the refugee camp chic aesthetic. Aeryn knows Scorpius feeds him, but he still looks nutrient deprived.) It's what the fresh body in their cell represents: the growth of their cause.

Stark sits on the cell bench, pulling his knees to his chest, his ankles crossed. “Gender inequality is anathema to the Goddess,” he explains.

It isn't a minute before Scorpius strides into the brig, escorted by two security officers, who deactivate the containment field and nudge him inside. He's ditched his uniform, stripped down to his leather get-up. “I'd take this off, but I imagine that would be a much more extreme political statement than you're willing to make.”

They sit together, conspicuous in their alienness until roughly an hour after alpha shift ends, when a torrent of nude crew members enters the brig broken up every so often by uniformed folks with various non-regulation additions: hijabs, kippahs, turbans, and the like. Once they've all filed into the brig—there's hardly room for them all—their elected representative, the communication officer from alpha shift, Uhura turns to Aeryn and explains that a bunch of them got to talking during dinner. Turns out a lot of people had problems with the uniform regulations. Someone from astral cartography couldn't get mehndi done for her sister's wedding because visible tattoos aren't allowed while on duty. One of the doctors had to cut off most of his hair to fit regulations. According to Uhura, there isn't much she can do with her hair that's regulation besides keep it short or straighten it with chemicals.

“We talked about circulating a petition,” Uhura says, “but then we thought, 'what the hell?'”

–

They win. Of course, they win. How could they not win? They have Braca, who's dead organized and knows the regs by heart; the Starchild, who could get the president of the Federation on subspace if he wanted (they settle for Admiral Pike); Uhura, who knows how to speak high command like it's Klingonese; and Aeryn, who demands the best from everyone and the impossible from herself. (They also have Stark, who doesn't contribute anything of substance, but is nonetheless still very important.)

Aeryn gets her trousers, Uhura and Geoff get their hair locked, and there's mehndi that Eid.

Aeryn thinks she can live with the way Jim Kirk runs a starship until Stark creeps over to their usual table— _Aeryn's_ table—all wild-eyed, and tugs on Aeryn's sleeve. “Aeryn, Aeryn, Aeryn.”

“Stark.”

“You have to do something!”

“Okay.”

“The red, _the red_ keep dying.”

“Stark,” Scorpius says from across the table, “remember what we said about making sense?”

“Right.” Stark nods several times before focusing back on Aeryn. “The crew who die—they wear red. You wear red, you die. It's so simple, but no one _believes_ me.”

Aeryn places a hand on Stark's shoulder. “Did you take your medication?”

“What?” Stark sputters.

“Your—”

“He isn't being medicated,” Scorpius says.

“Seriously? He's insane. He's very clearly not well. Am I the only person who sees this?”

“Dr. McCoy says I'm the sanest person on board,” Stark says.

Braca drops his fork, horror etched across his face. “That man is my psychologist.”

“You have to believe me.” Stark pulls hard at Aeryn's sleeve. “I know death. I see their faces. They become me. And almost all of them are wearing red shirts.”

“So,” Aeryn starts, “the great order of the cosmos is color-coding who dies?”

“No, no. This is worldly phenome—”

“Wait,” Braca says. “Stark might have a point.”

“Thank you... I do?”

“Operations division uniforms are red shirts and that division makes up a disproportionate number of crew deaths.”

“How disproportionate?” Aeryn asks.

“Well, as with all constellation class starships, the Enterprise started her mission with fifty percent of her crew in operations. As of today, operations division makes up...” He looks up, thinking for a microt. “...seventy-three-point-two-five percent of the mission's total casualties.”

“Oh god,” Scorpius says into his mug, “I'm frelling Mr. Spock.”

Stark's bottom lip wobbles. “What's the matter with that?”

“Operations division includes security,” Aeryn says. “They're put in contact with enemy combatants more than anyone else.”

“They also have more combat training than anyone else,” Braca counters.

“That would explain why they're so skilled at getting themselves killed,” Scorpius says. “The combat courses at the Academy are an absolute waste of time.”

“I wouldn't say an absolute waste,” Aeryn says. “They're no doubt remedial, but by the end of term the other students were almost able to keep up with me.”

“You were allowed to spar with the other students. I had to practice on a dummy.”

“Because of your...” Aeryn waves her hand next to her temple.

“No. During the first practical, I, er, sent two cadets to medical.”

“ _Two?_ ”

“I underestimated the strength of one of my blocks. It, er, sent my sparring partner flying across the room. Another cadet's body broke his fall.”

Braca grasps Scorpius' gloved hand. “After our shift ends, I need you to retell that story and then have sex with me.”

Aeryn shakes her head as Scorpius lets out a tiny, flirtatious growl in Braca's direction. “You showed your instructor that their curriculum was ineffective against stronger species the first day,” she says, “and they didn't change anything?”

“Er...” Scorpius manages to tear his eyes away from Braca for a moment. (Goddess knows where Braca's hand has disappeared to.) He coughs. “No. Not for the rest of class. The TA was instructed to teach me how to attack less... lethally.”

“So instead of teaching the Human cadets how to fight better, they taught the alien how to fight worse. That is...” Aeryn throws her napkin on the table and climbs on top of the bench. “Oi! Hey!”

From his seat, Braca whistles loud enough to quiet the lunch crowd.

Aeryn gives him a nod before addressing the mess hell. “Anyone who'd like to survive the next three years can meet me for a hand-to-hand combat tutorial in...”

Braca taps at a padd. “I reserved recreation deck five at 1900 hours.”

“Rec deck five at 1900.”

–

The assembled crowd is unfortunately made up mostly of the science nerds—the overblown techs self-conscious about their fighting prowess. This first tutorial won't do much to solve Stark's redshirt problem, but there are a few security guys—big, bulking pieces of manflesh, the type Aeryn usually calls for a good time—there to prove themselves. They're front and center, blocking the view of the shorter nebbishes from Scorpius' lab and the women Stark invited. (Stark is a big hit with his female parishioners. They all want to take care of him.) They sneer openly at Aeryn when they're not giving her that challenging, let-me-tilt-my-chin-up-in-the-air-as-high-as-it-will-go thing young Human males do when they're apprising someone. Despite Braca and Scorpius' plans for... whatever it is they do (Aeryn hasn't seen the tape), they're there on time, if a little rumpled. Stark is there too, hiding behind Scorpius.

"It's five after," Braca says, holding a stylus. "Should we begin?"

"Yeah." Aeryn walks to the middle of the mat, not needing a whistle to silence the crowd this time. She kind of has that presence. "Most of you are here because you want to brush up on your fighting technique. You've seen your friends die, you've heard your parents talk about how dangerous Starfleet is, you've reviewed the casualty statistics for the average five year mission. You've acknowledged that not all of us in this room are going to make it home. That's okay. That's why we have Stark." That gets a little laugh. "Those of you who realize this are probably in better shape than the people who came tonight with a chip on their shoulder, out to prove that they don't need combat lessons. The guys in red. If you're one of those people—one of those _men_ —please step forward." No one moves. "Come on. You wanted to prove yourself. Go right ahead."

A group of those sneering boys step forward, snickering amongst themselves.

"Good boys. Now, I imagine you all think you can take on the toughest, strongest aliens the galaxy. Klingons, Romulans, _Scarrans_." She gives a look back at Scorpius. "Now's your chance." She turns around. "Stark, come out here."

Starks steps put from behind Scorpius, pointing to himself. "Me?"

"Yes, come on."

He scuttles out to the center of the mat.

“Alright, since everyone already knows what a half-Scarran and a Sebacean can do, let's try a Banik. Stark, I need you to stand your ground. Under no circumstances are you allowed to fall down or move even a centimeter. Got that?" Stark nods. “Now, boys, I want _you_ to make him. Who wants to go first?”

A particularly cocky individual walks over to Stark, apologizing to him before trying to bring him down in a tackle. But, Stark, of course, doesn't move a centimeter. The redshirt pushes up against him, but ends up drooping off Stark like a ragdoll.

“Let's try two. Anyone want to give their friend a hand?”

Another redshirt comes and tries pulling Stark from behind to no avail. He still won't budge. So, Aeryn calls another and another and another, but all they get is five well-built guys humiliated, sweating, and redfaced pressing up against Stark. (It's a good thing Aeryn didn't go with Scorpius or Braca for this exercise; they would've found that far too enjoyable.).

“You can stop now.”

The redshirts scrabble back to the audience with their tails between their legs, while Stark steps behind Aeryn with a little more pride than he had before.

“If you don't know already, Baniks were not bred for warfare. They're a slave race whittled down over the millennia to be sturdy and capable of a lifetime of physical labor. Look at Stark. Do you see any muscles? Any sign that he does anything but hide and pray? No. But five Human men at peak physical condition couldn't bring him down. Why? Because he's an alien, and like most aliens, he's a good deal stronger than the general Human species. Generally speaking, the Human species as a whole is weak.”

There were a few murmurs of dissent.

“You've been taught that your species is normal. That it's the aliens who are super strong. That's why you say they have superhuman strength. Did you ever think for one microt that you have sub-Banik strength? Starfleet teaches you that all species have something unique to offer to the Federation. The Vulcans have logic. Peacekeepers have discipline. Even the Klingons have a sense of honor that we can learn from. But you're never taught that all species have weaknesses. You're especially not taught that Humans have weaknesses. We're all supposedly equal. That's the one great promise of the Federation. When I was recruited into Starfleet I was told, 'Don't worry about people treating you differently because you're Sebacean; in these uniforms, we're all the same.' No, we're not. We're different. And those differences make all of us naturally better at some things and worse at others.

“Including Humans.

"Anyone who's taken basic biology courses knows that most species, when left to their devices, evolve to fill a certain niche in the environment. Fish can swim. Snakes can hiss. Woodpeckers can... woodpecker. But you wouldn't except a woodpecker to be as good at hissing as a snake or a fish to woodpecker at all. The same is true for sentient species even in cases where breeding was selective instead of natural. For example... Stark." She steps off to his right side. "Without moving your head, tell me how many fingers I'm holding up."

"Er... three?"

"My hand wasn't even in the air."

“Oh, sorry.”

"It's okay. You can't help it. Like all Stykera, he has no vision to the right of his nose. But he's strong and can pass the dead over to the next realm. How many of you can do that? The Scarrans, if you recall, were damn near invincible to normal weapons found in their sector of space, but were incredibly vulnerable to phaser fire. And as we later learned, they couldn't maintain their evolved form without a nutrient that couldn't be synthesized and was only available in one very delicate species of plant. As for my species, Sebaceans live for hundreds of years, have excellent vision, and, in general, are faster and stronger than Humans. But, as you all probably know, Sebaceans can't take the heat, to use a Human expression. If our bodies overheat, we loose function until eventually slipping into a coma.

“And Humans... they're quite the opposite of us Sebaceans. You're physically weak, have a dreadfully short lifespan, and have the senses of a baby mouse. But your brains can handle more heat than any species that evolved on your planet. You evolved that way. You don't have horns or claws or pointy teeth. And your eyesight doesn't give you as good of aim as a hawk or octopus, but you can run. The Human species' greatest talent is its capacity to run away.

“I've seen the ability quite well. I grew up in France.

“Joking aside, Humans evolved to hunt their living food by chasing it until its brain overheated and it collapsed. Running is your strength. Embrace it.

“Don't rely on physical strength when you go up against species that are stronger than you. Which is most species. The tactics we use now are completely wrong for combatting with aliens. Run away. It's okay.

“If this speech has wounded your delicate, Human sensibilities so much that you'd rather stew in your feelings than learn how to survive, then leave. But if you want to figure out how to sculpt defensive techniques that seize upon your natural, Human superiority for running, stay."

–

The lesson goes surprisingly well. Surprisingly because Aeryn has never taught anything like this before, doesn't suffer fools easily, and has no idea what she's doing half the time—not to mention the Human tendency for hurt feelings when met with constructive criticism. The next week is even better with most of the drannits gone and those interested bringing along friends. Aeryn's certain she'll actually bring change around these parts until Kirk calls her into his office like she's a naughty school-girl. (And not in the way Aeryn usually plays naughty school-girl.)

It's humiliating in a way Aeryn can't define, being talked down to by this Human who she would have schooled in her first lesson. She might be a little less than diplomatic in her response to him. But whatever. He can't boot her off the ship for speaking her mind just the once. Instead, he issues a warning and suspends her combat tutorials indefinitely.

“Captain, you might disagree with what I said,” she says, “but that's no reason to keep me from teaching your crew the skills they need to survive this mission.”

“Lieutenant Sun, I'll reconsider your tutorials once you've demonstrated you can censor your more spacist tendencies.”

–

That comes sooner than she imagines. Kirk calls her into his office again two days later, looking perhaps more than a little hungover. “Lieutenant Sun, take a seat.”

She sits, crossing her arms.

“Having discussed the matter with my first officer and Dr. McCoy, I've determined that I was perhaps a little hasty in suspending your tutorials.” He sighs, as if it is hurting him to say this. “You've demonstrated strong leadership skills and I would be remiss as your commanding officer not to develop those skills. I may not agree with everything you said about Humanity or the inherent weaknesses of species, but anyone worth a damn would agree with your goal of lowering casualty rates.”

“So, I can keep teaching the tutorials.”

“Yes. With a few provisions. I want to see lesson plans a week ahead of time and I'd like you to check in with me twice a month to discuss how the lessons are going. For liability's sake, you'll need to have medical staff on hand to treat and prevent injuries. Does this work for you?"

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

“Am I released?”

“Yes, you can go.” Before Aeryn reaches the door, Kirk says, “Mr. Sun.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Spock and I will be going on an away mission tomorrow. I'd like you to take the conn.”

“What about Mr. Scott?”

“Mr. Scott is...” Drunk? “...busy in engineering.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

–

Sitting in the captain's chair, watching Braca maintain a standard orbit, Scorpius scanning for life forms at the science station, and Stark hiding under the comms station (Uhura's wearing pants, so it isn't too creepy), Aeryn thinks that maybe she can make this Starfleet work for her.


	3. Scorpius: Humans Made Them Do It

_“Scorpy the Teenage Hero outwits the Scarrans, makes it looks easy. You goin' for pity or applause?”  
“Neither!”_  
—John Crichton (neural chip version) and Scorpius, “Incubator”

 _“Blast medicine anyway. We've learned to tie into every human organ in the body except one. The brain. The brain is what life is all about. Now, that man can think any thought that we can, and love, hope, dream as much as we can, but he can't reach out, and no one can reach in.”_  
—McCoy, “The Menagerie, Pt. 1”

–

He doesn't remember much of what came before. Maybe the constant heat delirium prevented memories from forming or maybe he's just blocking the cycles upon cycles of pain and abuse. He's something of a wunderkind in the field of cybernetic-neurobiology, but this is one mystery of the mind he doesn't care to unravel.

It's easier to imagine that his life began that day—the day Christopher Pike—then Captain Christopher Pike, then walking—burst into his chamber, very much the conquering hero, making Tauza literally disappear with one tiny move of his fingers—one tiny gun, nothing like the giant rifles hefted by the Scarran guards and yet utterly their superior. Just like Scarrans and Humans.

He was a child, very young and very ugly. Pike couldn't understand a word he said, but he knew somehow that he needed rescuing and he scooped him up into his arms. And he smelled so good—like sweat, something completely un-Scarran, something Scorpius thought only he produced—something he tried desperately to hide. It was the first time anyone had ever held him. He remembers that much. And he got taken away, carried through the battle and onto a starship. From the coolness of sickbay, he watched the dreadnought burn.

These were good people, he decided. And he was going to be one of them.

The captain visited him everyday, brought him things—small, cold presents like frozen yogurt and ice lollies. Scorpius had never tasted anything sweet besides the crystherium Tauza force-fed him. In their daily visits, Scorpius learned to separate the sounds Christopher made from the meanings the translator microbes made him believe he was hearing. By the time they reached San Francisco, Scorpius was speaking broken Standard much to the delight of Christopher and the waiting press.

Scorpius remembers his first press conference, remembers the lights and the sound equipment and the hundreds of reporters hanging on his every word, and thinking, _These people are mine._

The first thing he ever owned was his story.

Most Human children have monsters who visit them in their dreams and live in their closets. Scorpius had Tauza. Scorpius had the entire Scarran species. And he was very young and very ugly. So he told the Humans with the cameras what he believed was true. He told them about the monsters under his bed and how they raped women and abused poor, sick children and how they lied and could never be trusted.

Scorpius is a student of Humanity—their culture, their history. He knows the typical story. _The World_ says the _Maine_ was sunk with a torpedo, US troops invade Cuba. The twenty-four hours news networks show how oppressed women in Afghanistan are, the coalition of the willing drops bombs on them. A little boy says the Scarrans are traitorous monsters dedicated to destruction, all intentions of crafting a peace treaty fly out the air lock. And suddenly there aren't any more Scarrans.

Scorpius knows that quite clearly, but can't bring himself to feel guilty. He is half-monster after all.

As much as he tries to purge that half from his being, all he can do is contain it. In a suit. In tiny rods of chemicals drilled into his brain. It's painful, but effective—and far superior to the ice baths of his youth.

Scorpius spent his childhood locked away in a Victorian owned by Starfleet and said to be “homier” than their xenobiology research base on Mars. And, as they reasoned, the English countryside was more temperate than Mars. Not that Scorpius ventured outside much. As he explains to Braca, “Have you ever read _The Secret Garden_? It was like that... except we didn't have a garden.”

Scorpius has no doubt that one of his many biographers will make a comparison between his tenures as Scarran and Starfleet test subject, probably saying something like, “He traded one prison for another.” And while Scorpius didn't particularly enjoy being locked away in a tower like a fairy tale princess (a comparison he once made in adolescence to his psychiatrist, who then spent the rest of their session pressing Scorpius about his presumed feelings of inadequacy and gender confusion resulting from his “incomplete” phallus), a posh mansion with a full library can't compare to a sauna on a dreadnought with Tauza.

He appreciates what Starfleet has done for him even if he wishes they'd gone about it a little less paternalistically.

For someone without a father (Wolesh was one of Jim Kirk's first confirmed kills), Scorpius remains plagued by paternalism. The nickname doesn't help. (Scorpius is pushing thirty, but the press—and the world—still calls him “the Starchild.” If he'd known his choice of name—picked from a porthole in sickbay—would cause so much trouble, he wouldn't have chosen a constellation. Although, in hindsight, “Virgo” would've proven sadly appropriate.)

Starfleet is one of the chief offenders, rejecting his application to the Academy on the basis of his physical exam. Scorpius took the rejection in stride, sending the dean of admissions a letter thanking her for her consideration—and attached a draft of the statement he planned on releasing to the press regarding the matter. His letter of admission arrived the next morning.

Scorpius supposes that wasn't the right thing—the Human thing—to do. A Human would be gracious, drowning themselves in gratitude, entirely unwilling to pull themselves ashore with a little conditionality of ethics. Most take Scorpius' blackmailing of the Academy—and many people know about it—to mean that he's an ungrateful child, spoiled and foreign and incapable of loyalty.

Make no mistake, Scorpius has the capacity for loyalty, but it takes more than playing the savior and treating him like a medical oddity to earn that loyalty. (Starfleet hasn't stopped treating Scorpius this way by the time he enters the Academy—for his first year working in the neurobiology lab, he is repeatedly redirected to the xenomedicine waiting room by floor staff. It isn't until he gets his name and face in all of the cybernetics and neurobiology journals that people understand that he's a researcher not a patient.)

Scorpius' loyalty is actually quite easy to earn. Treat him like a person—like a Human being—and you'll be rewarded beyond measure. As the most famous alien on Terra, this treatment is rather rare, so Scorpius doesn't have many people to whom he is loyal. But those who've earned his loyalty get his unreserved devotion.

The first selfless thing Scorpius does is staking his career on helping Christopher. Scorpius is in his second year at the Academy when the accident happens, when Christopher loses all of his motor function. Scorpius is gutted by the news—knowing well that Christopher would have rushed into a room overflowing with delta radiation to help just about anyone, including an ugly little half-breed he never met before. Scorpius is one of the first people who gets to see Chris outside of his immediate family.

The sight tears him to pieces. There's no reason why in that day and age that a man should rot away in a wheelchair that can only pivot, silenced to only yes and no. But there was also no reason why a boy should spend all day locked indoors, watching the world from a cold room. It's a familiar feeling, knowing that Humans don't care about some people beyond pitying them as pathetic.

As Scorpius understands it, pity is an addictive emotional state for most of the Human species. Finding someone to pity and keeping them pitiable is very important to certain Humans, mostly those in power or in the medical fields. Those Humans not only want to feel the sensation of pity, but have a compulsive need to be needed. It's more important for them get a fix than to fix things.

Scorpius has very little doubt that had he not devised his own system of maintaining a (close to) constant internal temperature, he would have stayed in his tower in England for the rest of his life. The science was too new, they said. His physiology was too strange. No one wanted to take the risk. That left only Scorpius to discover the adaptive technology that would let him live as a person. As close to a Human as possible. Finding a doctor to install the cooling rod system in his brain was trying. Scorpius somehow managed to track down a Diagnosan taking an extended holiday in the English countryside who was willing to risk his reputation on attempting Scorpius' procedure. It didn't hurt that the Diagnosan had his own warp-capable vessel that could get him out of Earth's orbit in a manner of minutes if he botched the surgery. As Scorpius anticipated, the surgery was a success.

The coolant suit also proved to be effective at controlling Scorpius' temperature. Strangely, it also made Scorpius feel something like a superhero for designing and wearing a skin-tight bodysuit made out of futuristic, synthetic fabric. The first time he went out in full adaptive tech regalia, he managed strangers' odd looks with fantasies of Spiderman and Superman. (He's much more like Iron Man or Batman (poor little rich kid making his own destiny), if he thinks about it, but youth made him imagine himself more noble than he ever was.)

The feelings of freedom he experiences whenever he puts on the suit are better than any superpower. And Scorpius would know. One of the consequences of his hybrid physiology could be called a superpower—but being able to tell when someone is lying is nowhere as great as being able to leave the house, go places, and do things.

So, in a way, Scorpius understands what Christopher must be going through, even if Chris can barely communicate his emotional state or much of anything for that matter. Scorpius tries, bringing Chris a guide to Morse code, but the limitations of the wheelchair make even that impossible. They resort to a highly-specialized alphabet that only Scorpius can really understand. Each letter is differentiated by a number of flashes and the time between each flash. It becomes something like a song for the eyes. It's quite amazing in a way this language they've built, but it's not enough.

Scorpius can't be there all the time; he tries to make it to all of Chris' appointments and even attempts to teach Chris' attendants their coded language, but he has Starfleet commitments, a life of his own, and the stress wears on his own impairment. To use a Human expression, he simply does not have the "spoons" to keep doing this. Neither does Chis. Their coded language is mentally taxing, and when he communicates with others, flashing once for yes and twice for no, running through a variety of yes and no questions to get what he wants and needs quickly frays at his temper. After a few hours, Chris is too emotionally and intellectually drained to bother with the world outside his head.

There's a breaking point two months after Chris' accident where he and Scorpius are so fed up at everything (the words, their attendants fluttering about, the heat, the frustration) that all they can do is yell at each other. Chris can only get one word out for everyone sentence of Scorpius'; it's not a fair fight and Scorpius makes it worse by turning his back on Chris, which, given how Chris communicates, is effectively Scorpius covering his ears and singing "la, la, la, I can't hear you."

It's not one of Scorpius' finer moments. Looking back, it's about as repugnant as his attendants who would tell him he could go just a little bit longer until needing a cooling rod change. Adaptive technology is not something to be frelled with or discounted.

When Scorpius turns around, having run through his tirade, there's a tear siding down Chris' cheek. Scorpius has never had a father, but he imagines in that moment he learned the horror of watching your own father cry.

"Chris, I'm sorry. _I'm sorry_."

"I know," Chris flashes. "We can't keep doing this."

"I know."

"You should go."

"Do you want me to?"

Two flashes for no. "But I know you need to. You have school."

"School isn't as important—"

"Kid, don't waste your Academy years on me. That's the best time of your life, you should be spending it with friends not with some washed-up cripple."

"You know I don't have any friends. None besides you."

"Because I'm holding you back."

"You're not holding me back. You're the only person who's ever... Why do you think I joined Starfleet to begin with?"

"You wanted to make me proud."

"That's all I've ever wanted."

"You make me proud every day, okay? Just by being you. That tough, little shit you are. Now, get out. Leave an old man to himself. You go be young for me."

"Okay. I'll comm you tomorrow."

"Don't. I'm serious."

Scorpius leaves, goes back to his dorm, and tears it to pieces. 

He has a lot of free time now that he doesn't remember how he filled before Chris' accident.

He wasn't exaggerating when he told Chris that he didn't have any friends except for him. Out of the tower, he's still held up over everyone by virtue of his notoriety, too far away to touch—with the exception of his attendants, cold, emotionless touches on his cooling apparatus. The clinical haste of handling his cooling suit when he goes into the fresher. The preparation of his second suit, ready and waiting for him to come out, the chronometer ticking down to zero from thirty. And even that ritual comes only once a week.

He wants to touch, smell, taste, mark... But that doesn't seem likely. The closest he's ever gotten is having an attendant changing a cooling rod after he comes alone—either by his own hand or in his dreams. It's humiliating.

Scorpius can only imagine what it must be like for Chris—devoid of even Scorpius' dulled sensations. And worse than that—Scorpius' hard won and tightly gripped control of self.

He has orders. He knows it would be wrong to ignore Chris' wishes, to go back and intrude on whatever life he has now completely alone and silent. But he can't let go, because if he does, leaves Chris as he is, he becomes just another onlooker—another Starfleet member—thinking, "Poor Pike," resigning him to his pitiable fate. Scorpius would be locking Chris in a tower of his own.

Scorpius finds it easy to be mad or self-righteous about other people's treatment of Pike. The science is there or close to it, but no one seems to want to reach for it. As Scorpius discovered as a child in his tower, Humans have a distinct fear of treating the brain like any other organ. The brain is the self, the Human ego, placed on a pedestal far from the bladder, kidneys, and heart. Rewiring the brain—drilling holes into the brain, in Scorpius' case—is considered taboo, somehow different than surgically inserting silicone, pacemakers, or replacement organs. As if one cut of the laser scalpel could bring down the entire soul.

Scorpius has been to enough of Chris' appointments to know what the doctors are paranoid about. Any cybernetics that could be installed in his brain might destroy his mental faculties—the one thing Chris apparently has left. (There's dignity, Chris could still have that, but no one seems keen on preserving that.) Strange, Scorpius has studied the history of his field, and no one seemed so concerned about preserving the natural (albeit limited) hearing of cochlear implant patients.

(In the future, deafness is a thing of the past. (Unless your transceiver breaks, then you're screwed.))

Progress happens at the rate of convenience.

Scorpius has done the research and there's little risk involved in the way he would do it—beyond the reputations of the doctor pioneering the procedure. If they "fix" Christopher Pike, Federation hero... a guaranteed future, a million accolades, a place in the hall of great Human thinkers. If the procedure fails... reputation shattered on the public newswire. No future. Worse than obscurity. Back in the tower.

But Scorpius is a tough, little shit and since leaving the dreadnought, he's always gotten whatever he's wanted. (Besides a warm body pressed up against his own—but that will come someday soon, he hopes.)

He visits Pike again two weeks later with blue prints and a Diagnosan.

"I can't let you do this," he says.

"It will make my career."

"Don't pretend to be selfish around me. I'm the one person who won't buy it."

"Don't pretend to be selfless around me." Scorpius leans over, his face inches from Christopher's. "A little self-interest never hurt anyone." He backs away, looking around Chris' bedroom. "When was the last time you left this house?"

Pike doesn't answer.

"They will keep you here until you die. They will _kill_ you."

Pike hesitates before flashing, "When can we do it?"

After taking measurements and casting the materials, Scorpius and the Diagnosan sneak Chris out under the cover of darkness, beaming him aboard the Diagnosan's vessel. It's over by morning. Chris is resting from the pain, Scorpius is passed out in a chair. He hasn't slept much in the past month. It's telling of how piss poor Chris' attendants are that no one calls to see where Chris has disappeared to until noon.

Chris beams back into his living room, very much the conquering hero, pivoting, driving, back and forth, turns, speaking in his own voice from words culled from the thousands of reports he's made over the course of his Starfleet career.

He isn't cured. That was never Scorpius' intention, but he can _leave_.

 _Chris is Human again,_ a small ashamed voice in Scorpius' head says, _or close enough._

Scorpius is scolded behind closed doors by the dean the of the science division, but to the press, Scorpius is the half-breed of the hour. Under Starfleet's careful guidance, the Starchild has managed to once again triumph over his circumstances, his upbringing, his breeding, his genetics, his condition, his sickness, his disability, etc.

If Scorpius is daily triumphing over himself and impossible odds, then, he asks, why isn't anyone giving him medals, candy, presents, sex? So far no one has stepped forward.

His reward comes with time: a placement in the best cybernetics lab on Terra after graduation, a hasty promotion, the Enterprise with a little finagling, and even his own Banik.

On second thought, the Banik might actually be a punishment.

“Officially,” Pike explains, “Stark is contracted as the ship chaplain. But off the records, he's your attendant.”

Scorpius pictures a staid but charitable greybearded mystic, not the whirling mess of a young person he gets.

Their first night aboard the Enterprise, despite Scorpius assuring him that he would be commed when needed, Stark insists on sleeping on Scorpius' floor. “Insists” perhaps isn't the best word. Stark _emotionally blackmails_ Scorpius into letting him sleep over.

Scorpius dims the lights, reclining on his bed. “Stark, I will comm you if I need a cooling rod.”

“Yes.”

“You can go to your quarters now.”

“Oh.”

“For the night.”

“Sure.” He stares at the door nervously, emitting quiet, high-pitched moan like a tea kettle.

“Stark. _Stark_ , what is wrong?”

“I...” He tugs hard at the hem of his shirt, stretching the fabric taut. “I've never spent the night away from home. Not since the refugee camp. Could I—Could I sleep here?”

“Stark...”

“I'll sleep on the floor. I'll be very quiet.”

Scorpius sighs. “Fine.”

Stark squeals in delight. “Thank you. You'll hardly know I'm here.”

“Lights to seven percent... Good night, Stark.”

“Good night, Scorpius.”

True to his word, Stark keeps his mouth shut and settles his near-constant wriggling. Scorpius is almost asleep when Stark starts crooning, “Hush now, little Banik. Don't you cry tonight. We're ordered to work early, before morn's first light.”

Scorpius opens his eyes to find Stark's face hovering a few inches away from his own. “What are you doing?”

“I'm just trying to make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.”

“You seem... agitated.”

Scorpius stuffs his head under his pillow. “Go to sleep, Stark.”

“Yes, sir.”

Months later, Scorpius realizes with not a small amount of horror that it was that night he made his first friend. What could he have possibly done in a past life to deserve this?

–

At breakfast, Scorpius quickly zeros in on the only other aliens on board (besides Mr. Spock, who Scorpius has met on numerous prior occasions, each time being introduced as someone Spock would have a lot in common with; naturally, they despise one another). Running cold, the two Sebaceans' heat signatures are easy to pick out in a crowd—even though they're the first Sebaceans Scorpius has ever seen in the flesh.

When he requests a seat at their table, they're hospitable, clique-y, remarkably xenophobic—and the only tie Scorpius has the maternal side of his ancestry, besides the oft-theorized link between Sebaceans and pre-historic Terra. 

The female is, in a word, young. The male is odd, calculating in a way that manages to be entirely non-threatening. The table is nice.

–

During the early hours of Scorpius' first shift in the neurobiology lab, Stark comes crashing in, winded. “Lieutenant!”

“What's the matter? Did you have another epiphany?” Stark has, on average, three spiritual epiphanies a day, some of which manage to actually be rather profound.

“No. Yes! But this isn't about that.” He takes a deep breath. “Aeryn and Braca have been arrested!”

“Arrested?”

“Yes! They took their clothes off on the bridge—which is apparently as taboo in Starfleet as it is in Australia.”

“Slow down. Why did they remove their clothes?”

“Right. Er, they were protesting! The women's uniform!” 

“What's wrong with the women's uniform? I quite like the look of it.”

“They—they're not wearing it for _you_.”

“It is, admittedly, rather impractical.”

“Yes! That's why they're protesting. And-and I think we should protest with them.”

“You can't be serious.”

“We have to support them. They're our friends.”

“Stark, not everyone who speaks to you is your friend.”

“But they could be!”

“You're suggesting that disrobing will win you their friendship.”

“Yes, sometimes that is necessary.”

Scorpius is quickly beginning to understand many of them female crew members' impulse to hug Stark. “Stark...” he starts, but isn't sure how he would ever respond.

Luckily, Stark's penchant for interruption doesn't fail him. “This is a grave injustice and I—I want to help. But I can't—I _won't_ leave you alone.” His eyes flick Scorpius' right temple. “But if you went with me...”

“In case you have forgotten,” Scorpius hisses, voice low, “the suit does not come off.”

“Except for showers twice a week for no more than thirty minutes at a time,” Stark recites. “I know, but you could remove your uniform and—and voluntarily place yourself in the brig.” Stark looks ups at Scorpius through his eyelashes. “They'll like you, if you do. They'll be your friends.”

“You're the one who needs help making friends, not me.”

Stark smiles feebly. “Of course. I was foolish for suggesting it. I'll—I'll see you at lunch, unless you need me earlier.”

Scorpius nods him off and goes back to his work, but in a moment, Stark is uncomfortably close, whispering in his ear, “Aeryn and Braca are still naked—in the brig. You would _see_ them.”

–

They step in front of the viewscreen, blocking the captain's view.

“Gentleman?” Kirk says. “Is there something you need?”

“The revision of the women's uniform regulations,” Scorpius answers.

“As I told Lieutenants Sun and Braca, I have no say in uniform regs, but you can register a complaint with Mr. Spock and he will direct it to the admiralty.”

“Then you leave us with no choice.” They start to take their shirts off.

“Gentleman, stop undressing. That's an order.”

“I'm sorry, captain,” Stark says, kicking off his shoes, undoing his fly. “But I report to a higher authority.”

Kirk rolls his eyes. “The Goddess?”

Stark shakes his head. “The Galactic Commission of Military Chaplains. But, yes, also the Goddess.”

–

In the cell, Scorpius is, for once in his life, thankful that his genitalia does not have the same form and erectile capabilities found on either side of his heritage.

–

The next morning at breakfast, after their victory, Aeryn is noticeably chummier, joking a bit, not making as many remarks about Stark. Braca is harder to read—just as polite as always, a little slow to pick up on social cues, waiting for them to be redirected through Aeryn. He doesn't add much to the conversation besides agreements to whatever Aeryn says until he starts talking backwards.

“Excuse me, what was that?” Scorpius asks.

Braca repeats himself, slower this time.

“What does that mean?”

Aeryn and Braca share a quizzical look. “You don't speak Sebacean?” Aeryn asks.

“Was that Sebacean?”

“How can you not speak Sebacean? You're Sebacean.”

“Language isn't passed down genetically.”

“You didn't have tutors growing up?” Braca asks.

“Yes, of course, but none of them deemed to teach me Sebacean. I suppose with me having translators microbes, it was never too great a priority for them.”

“What about for you?” Aeryn asks. “You're half-Sebacean.”

“Only biologically.”

“And culturally?”

“I consider myself Human. English specifically.”

After their laughter subsides and they determine that Scorpius is indeed being serious, Aeryn and Braca decide that Scorpius is in desperate need of Sebacean acculturation, taking the rest of the meal to hash out what aspects of Sebacean culture they are going to teach him.

“Language,” Braca says.

“Folklore,” Aeryn says.

“Cuisine.”

“Combat technique.”

(“Hatred of half-breeds,” Scorpius adds under his breath.)

“Leather maintenance.”

“Calligraphy.”

(“Slavery,” Stark says from under the table.)

–

“You're a rather quick study,” Braca says, switching back to Standard. “You've almost all the verb tenses memorized.”

“The tutorial software you created has been very helpful.” 

“I thought it might. I use it quite often for memorization.”

“Is it the same base coding? Because on mine, on the highest difficulty, the punishments and rewards are switched.”

“What do you mean?”

“The console gives a shock when I enter the right answer rather the wrong one.”

“Oh.” There's a tiny flash in Braca's heat signature. “I will have to fix that. Hadn't noticed that.” That is a lie, according to his body temperature.

“Do you do a lot of work with software?”

“Yes, mostly games.”

“Really? I wouldn't expect a former Peacekeeper to find much value in games.”

“I do mostly flight simulations. When I was growing up in England, that was the only way I could fly.”

“Were you a pilot when you were with the Peacekeepers?”

“Yes. I was two cycles away from taking the final simulation.”

“If you were that far along into training, why did the Peacekeepers dismiss you? They could have kept you in non-military housing until you were of age, correct?”

“Yes, but the Alliance treaty required a gradual troop reduction and I was judged to be... short.”

“I can understand why you didn't return as an adult.”

“They made it very clear they didn't want me.” Braca looks at the chronometer. “I ought to go. I promised Aeryn I would meet her in the gymnasium tomorrow morning before breakfast.”

“Very well. I'll see you at breakfast?”

“Yes.” Braca gets up off the couch, pushing himself up with a hand on Scorpius' thigh. It is a simple thing—a thoughtless action, but it's the most intimate touch he's received from someone who isn't an attendant. “I'll see you then. Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

As soon as the door swishes shut, Scorpius picks up his comm. “Stark.”

“Stark here.”

“Scorpius. Are you nearby?”

“I'm in my cabin.” Which is connected to Scorpius' through a shared bathroom.

“Good. I will need a cooling rod change in...” Scorpius takes a moment to gauge his physiological response. “...five minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Do not come in until I tell you.”

–

Scorpius loses his virginity in a turbolift. He thinks. It's all over-the-clothes—over-the-cooling-suit, as it were. And they are both intoxicated on polywater brought from the dying planet. Scorpius isn't sure that counts.

Any road, he winds up bragging to Stark at the earliest opportunity. Subtly, though. “You'll have to put more cooling rods in the pack I keep on me. I used all of them today. Having sexual relations. With Braca.”

Stark smiles widely. “That's nice. Today, I flew the Enterprise.”

Scorpius scowls. “Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Stark.”

“No, I flew the Enterprise.”

“Is it really that unbelievable that someone would choose to have sex with me?”

He stalks off to the bathroom, hearing Stark mutter, “I did. I did.”

–

Braca comes over that night for the inevitable let-down “this was a one time thing” speech Scorpius is expecting.

As soon as the door opens, Braca says, “We should talk.”

Scorpius flinches at the cliché. “Of course. Come in.”

Braca steps inside, reaching out for Scorpius before putting his hands behind his back. “Actually, it would be easier if you read this.” He pulls out a padd. “It's on here.”

“A letter?” Scorpius asks, taking the padd.

“Yes. It was something I had written down already.”

He knew it was going to be bad; he didn't expect copy-pasted Dear John letter bad. “I see.”

Braca stares at him expectantly. “Are you going to read it?”

“Now? While you're still here?”

“I was hoping you would.”

“Very well.” Scorpius takes a seat on the edge of his bed and begins skimming the document. He sure as hell isn't going to read it closely. He catches a phrases or two:

_informed consent_

_a half-hour of aftercare_

_allergic to latex_

_safeword: skernack_

Scorpius feels the bed dip beside him. An arm circles his waist, a hand trails down to his...

“What are you doing?” he snaps.

Braca breathes heavily in his ear. “I don't think I can wait for you to finish. Just do what we did in the lift.” Braca wets his lips. “Or you could tie me up while you read.”

“You want to do it again?”

“Yes. Wasn't that clear in the letter?”

“I'll have to read it more thoroughly. Let me see if I can locate some rope.”

–

Sex with Braca is fun and interesting and painful and pleasurable and too physically demanding to not count—even if Scorpius doesn't remove his codpiece out of fear for his health? Modesty? A complex he didn't have until a psychiatrist told him he had it? All of the above, likely.

They make a routine of it. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, sex. Occasionally, breakfast, lunch, dinner, gym, sex. At Scorpius' request, Braca comes over after a work-out without showering, covered in sweat ready to be licked off by Scorpius.

Things are good. Scorpius couldn't ask for more. He's never expected this much. Yet, somehow, he's grown to want more.

He feels it happening. The bonding neurotransmitters flooding his synapses after every choke, every smack, every orgasm... Tricking him into believing things.

Into saying things. One thing. One sentence. Three words.

–

Stark is surprised when Scorpius calls him in for a change that evening. “Where's Braca?”

“He left. We've ended our association.”

“What happened?”

“I got 'clingy.'”

–

Scorpius has to rearrange his entire social life since he can obviously no longer sit at Aeryn's table. He ends up eating in his quarters a lot, sometimes pathetically smelling the shirt Braca left there. Somehow he finds himself having breakfast with Spock several times a week (they both like to eat early), which turns into chess games with Spock.

He hates Spock. He isn't too fond of chess either.

“I noticed you have stopped associating with Lieutenants Braca and Sun.” Spock moves his pawn up to the third level. Scorpius takes the pawn—not out of any strategic necessity, but out of spite. “A wise decision. I am referring to your social life, not that move, of course.” Spock takes a knight. “Sun is not a person to whom a young officer should link his career.”

“Mr. Sun is a good officer.”

“Then for what reason did you end your association?”

“The Sebaceans disapproved of my Humanity.” Particularly, the Human tendency for emotional attachments.

“Your _Humanity_?” Spock quirks an eyebrow, settling his queen on the second level.

“Yes.” Scorpius' rook moves in on the queen.

“You consider yourself Human?” The queen stays put.

“Culturally, yes.” Scorpius takes her.

“Then you are the only person who ever will. Checkmate.” Spock stands from the table. “If I might offer some advice, as a kindred being... You will never be one of them.”

“One of who?” But Spock has gone, leaving Scorpius alone in a room full of happy, laughing Humans.

–

Two weeks after Scorpius' pronouncement, Braca shows up at his door, arms behind his back and face contrite. “Can we talk?”

Scorpius takes a deep breath. “Come in.”

“I'm sorry about the way I behaved earlier. I reacted poorly.”

“That's an understatement.”

“I was in shock. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. But I appreciate that you did. Here. I...” He holds out a flower. A crystherium specifically.

“Is this a joke?”

“No. I thought you would like it.”

“Because I'm Scarran?” Scorpius growls.

“Yes.”

Scorpius grabs the crystherium and snaps it in two, throwing it to the ground. “Get out, Peacekeeper tralk.”

Braca doesn't move, just stares at Scorpius with a confused expression. “I brought you a flower. I bargained with Sulu to acquire it. I thought about what you would like. I thought about _you_.”

“You didn't think enough.”

“And you've rejected me,” Braca says, almost to himself.

“Because you mocked me with a frelling crystherium.”

“You think you're Human,” Braca mutters, staring at the ground, face contorted in confusion, “that should've worked.”

“You had to rub my face in my Scarran heritage.”

Braca looks back up at Scorpius. “How can I rub your face in what you are?”

“I am not Scarran! I'm...” He doesn't know how to finish.

“Scarran doesn't mean bad.”

“It does for me!”

“But the Scarran that's in you isn't bad. You're not bad.”

“What?” he asks quieter.

“There are parts of you that are Scarran that are good.” He isn't lying.

“You were a Peacekeeper. How can you possibly mean that?”

“Sebaceans and Peacekeepers have...” He looks off beyond Scorpius' shoulder. “...done bad things to me. I didn't think I could trust them—to be close with them. But then I met you.”

“And you could trust me?”

“I could trust myself when I was with you. Because you're inexperienced, I could have made you do things that would have hurt you. I don't want to hurt you and I regret that I did.”

“I shouldn't have sprung that on you.”

“It was nice. Scary, but nice. Like you.”

Scorpius runs his thumb along Braca's cheekbone, causing him to shudder. “Would you like to try again?”

“With feelings this time?”

Scorpius nods.

“I can't guarantee that I will feel the right things.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

Scorpius pulls him close then pushes him to his knees.

–

Sex with Braca is fun and interesting and pleasurable and painful and, admittedly, less frequent than before. But much more intense and longer lasting. Their play sometimes starts in the morning and ends after shift.

Sometimes they do things other than sex. Beyond even the general list of activities that falls under what they consider sexual play. (Which encompasses a great deal.) Sometimes they just sit on the couch and watch a holo. (Well, Scorpius sits on the couch. Braca sits on the floor, resting his head on Scorpius' lap.) Or play one of Braca's games. Or talk.

After three months, Braca still hasn't returned Scorpius' exact sentiments, although he often says things like, “You're perfect,” “I place my life in your hands,” or “I can only hope to repay your goodness and mercy with unwavering loyalty.” Flattering statements, but Scorpius gets the feeling Braca has said those things to a lot of people.

That's it until the Enterprise's first shore leave. They've set themselves up for one week of very intense, very weird sex. While unpacking his clothes, Braca says, “I think I might... love you. But I'm not certain.”

Scorpius does the only logical thing and frell his little sub's brains out. For five days straight.

He wants to remember those moments forever—being young, being in Starfleet, feeling this good with another person, liking his body, all of it, every last shred of Scarran DNA.

Fortunately, someone gets the whole week on videorecording.

–

Braca hasn't spoken a word since Aeryn told him what happened. (“My parents commed me about it.”) He says a little in their frustrating meeting with Kirk then returns to silence. Even hearing that they wouldn't be punished hasn't raised Braca's spirits. Scorpius feels mad? Guilty? Responsible? Braca is _his_. His to share, his to keep to himself. Braca's been shared with half the Federation (and the entirety of the Peacekeeper diaspora) and Scorpius is powerless to stop it. None of this would have happened if Scorpius' famous name wasn't on the hotel reservation.

The worst of it comes after Kirk does that interview on their behalf. Braca's silence has reached such an intensity that it's sucking the words out of everyone around him. Their table at lunch is devoid of conversation or even Stark's well-trod murmurings about the demands of his position—whatever those might be. The only people in their immediate vicinity who seem to be able to form words is a table of meatheads from security muttering amongst themselves, chuckling and staring at Scorpius and Braca. Scorpius manages to tune them out; ignoring abuse hurled his way is a skill he can thank Tauza for. Braca seems to be doing the same—until he socks one of the cackling hyenas square in the jaw.

He has the man—Loren, Scorpius thinks—sprawled out on the table. His friends are standing, ready to pounce on Braca. Rather than move to defend himself, Braca looks back at Scorpius, nodding his head at the approaching assailants, smiling like, “Let's play.”

–

Dr. McCoy comes into their secluded room in sickbay, throwing them each a cold compress—none-too-gently either.

“The captain has decided _not_ to court-martial you both, and the ensigns in ICU have waived their right to file charges.” McCoy leans up against a row of cabinets, crossing his arms over his chest. “In other words, congratulations. You just got away with beating the living hell out of three people.”

“How exactly?” Scorpius asks.

“You haven't heard?” McCoy cracks a genuine grin, mischief shining in his eyes. “You two are married.”

“What.”

“Yeah, you took a Scarran blood vow over shore leave—it's on the tape, I hear—and, by virtue of Scorpius' Scarran physiology, it made him fly into an unstoppable rage when you, Braca, attacked Ensign Loren out of deeply seated psychological trauma resulting from the release of the sex tape and years of abuse under the Peacekeepers.”

“I do not have trauma!” Braca says—perhaps a bit too loud to be convincing. “I just like beating people.”

“We'll discuss that in therapy. Wednesdays after shift. Oh, and your social worker wants to chat over subspace.”

“Fuck.”

“That wasn't a Scarran blood vow,” Scorpius hisses. “That was just frelling.”

McCoy holds up his hands. “That's between you and your mate... is that the right term?”

“We're not married.”

“According to Starfleet, you are. And, if I were you, I'd let them go on thinking that, unless you want to be the first Scarran-Sebacean hybrid to book a cell at Jaros II.” McCoy winks. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm needed in surgery. Mazel tov, boys.” McCoy clicks his tongue twice, before taking off down the corridor, whistling the wedding march.

“See?” Braca says brightly. “I told you there were benefits to being half-Scarran.”

Scorpius just glares.


	4. Braca: Good Boy

_“Hey, Braca! You look a little lost. ”  
“Does Mommy know you're here?  ”  
“Does Mommy know he's Scorpius' boy?”_  
—John Crichton and Aeryn Sun, “We're So Screwed, Pt. 2: Hot to Katratzi”

–

For as long as Braca can remember, there's always been someone telling him what to do.

It's rather brilliant, if you ask him. (And no one ever cares to.)

When he was a child, there were juvenile caregivers assigned to ensuring that he ate, slept, breathed, and attended classes. By the time he reached pre-adolescence and officially entered Peacekeeper training, he had his instructors to assign him the proper tasks to develop his skills as a pilot. After the forging of the Peacekeeper-Federation Alliance, Braca had his social worker and the group home "mother." Now he has the entire Starfleet hierarchy. (And the social worker, whom he hasn't managed to shake loose despite reaching the age of majority and acquiring gainful employment. Braca would prefer her to leave him be, relinquish control to the proper authorities—Starfleet high command.)

Other people he's met—even other Peacekeepers—don't seem to have the same affinity for putting their lives in the hands of others. Aeryn Sun, for example, hates being told what to do and purposefully rebels against orders she considers unwise—often bringing Braca along for the ride. It is not in _his_ nature to rebel against authority. He likes his orders and follows them to the best of his ability, hoping to get to the phase in a superior-inferior relationship where he's able to anticipate orders ahead of time and therefore no longer receive them. That, he supposes, is the most intimate relationship he aspires to have.

This isn't to say that Braca necessarily agrees with every order he receives, but he follows them just the same. And if it happens that a given master issues too many orders that Braca disagrees with, he discreetly replaces that master with a new one. He's also been known to supplement a mediocre master with one who gives more _pleasurable_ orders.

In his group home days, when the social worker would tell him to do something utterly contrary to his nature, he would find another boy (these Human dwellings were always sex-segregated) to beat him with a belt. Apparently, this wasn't normal. There was therapy after that.

There's been a lot therapy.

There's a distinctive pattern to Braca's behavioral health care history. First, he'll do something he believes to be completely normal and reasonable (or caught doing something he's learned isn't). Second, his social worker will send in a referral for a therapist. Third, Braca will see the therapist two or three times. Fourth, the therapist will release him, reassuring his social worker that Braca is completely fine. Repeat as necessary.

Braca peeked at his paperwork once and one therapist even went as far as to write, "Despite childhood trauma, Meeklo Braca might be the single most well-adjusted person I've ever met.” That seems to be the problem; people expect him to be traumatized and when he isn't they become upset or try to excavate his being for some evidence of hidden trauma. Requesting a beating with a leather belt becomes a sign of past childhood abuse rather than a sign of genuine moral depravity (by Human standards, at least).

It is somehow easier for people to believe that Braca was beaten horribly as a child than to believe that Braca likes to be beaten consensually as an adult.

Scorpius can barely understand it at first.

Pressed up against each other in a stalled turbolift, polywater sweat dripping down their foreheads, Braca stares at Scorpius predatorily. "Hit me," he says, low and dangerous.

"What?" Scorpius asks.

"Hit me."

"Why?"

"It..." He takes Scorpius' hand, leading it down his body, letting it settle on his groin.

Scorpius' eyes bulge as he realizes what Braca's physiology is signaling to him. "Oh."

"I want you to."

"The contaminant from the planet..." Scorpius swallows. "Lowers inhibitions."

"Yeah." He rubs Scorpius' hand along his crotch.

“So...” Scorpius is breathing heavily now. “The first you thing you do when relieved of your inhibitions is throw yourself at a colleague. I don't know what that says about you.”

“I suppose it says that I wanted to recreate with you before today but...”

Scorpius takes his hand back. “You were ashamed of being attracted to me.”

He shakes his head. “You're half-Sebacean and...” He runs his hand along Scorpius' deceptively trim bicep. “...very, very strong. You could hurt me.”

“I thought that's what you wanted.”

“There's a difference between the pain you ask for and the pain people leave you with.”

“I'd say I would never do that to you, but I'm not entirely certain I understand the distinction.”

"Hit me and you'll get it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Scorpius gives him a smack to the face—open-fisted and at probably only a tenth of the strength of Scorpius is capable of, but it's enough. Scorpius bares his teeth. "Again?"

"Yeah."

He gives Braca another to the opposite cheek. It's good, better this time. Braca can feel the flush rising where Scorpius made contact. "What do we do now?" Scorpius asks.

"Whatever you want."

Scorpius lunges forward, circling an arm around Braca, grabbing his arse, and hoisting him up in the air. Braca reflexively wraps his legs around Scorpius' waist. Scorpius licks a long stripe from Braca's collarbone to his forehead—an extremely foreign sensation—before pressing their foreheads together. "I..." Scorpius hips twitch against Braca's. "I've never..."

"Ever?"

"No."

"Do you want to?"

Scorpius seems to lose his balance somewhat, sending them both falling into the turbolift's aft wall. "Yes, but there's... I'm not..."

Braca then registers a certain lack of something pressing against him. "It's okay. You don't have to get an—"

"No." Scorpius whirls them around, shoving Braca into the turbolift door. "Anatomically, I'm..."

"Unique?"

"Yes. I can't... It's not like yours."

“But can you still...” He releases his hands from their hold on the back of Scorpius' neck, sliding them down his back before grabbing at his arse, crushing Scorpius' groin against his body. “...feel?” Scorpius fist pounding against the door answers the question of sensation.

Scorpius pants, “Yeah,” grinding their bodies together.

Braca is quickly losing his mind to feeling, but before he does... “There's a camera.”

“What?” Scorpius asks, but he doesn't slow.

“There's a-a—” Scorpius bites down on Braca's shoulder, the sharp teeth dulled by his uniform shirts. “Ah, good, good. There's a security camera in the ceiling.”

Scorpius pulls away, looking up. He growls before smashing his fist through the camera, taking it offline.

“Oh, god,” Braca gasps. “Frell me dead.” He tugs hard, bringing Scorpius down on top of him with the the suggestion. His head nearly smacks the the floor of the lift, but Scorpius' gloved hand catches it, settling it down gently. 

Scorpius is an oddly gentle sort.

He pauses, staring down at Braca, his breaths coming hard and fast. Braca rubs his hands over the curve of Scorpius' uniform trousers as they rest on his waist, slipping his thumbs under his shirts, feeling the smoothness of the leather suit beneath.

Scorpius ducks his head. “I can't remove it. The suit.”

“I know. I read your patent.” 

“Really?”

Braca smiles. “If there were more than one of you, you'd make a fortune.”

Scorpius leans down, kisses him sloppily with his thin lips, as Braca's hands ride up, taking Scorpius' shirts along with them. They break apart long enough to pull them up and over Scorpius' head, then Scorpius is back down on Braca, licking at his hairline with a taut tongue. Braca works on Scorpius' fly, fumbling for what seems like an eternity before Scorpius is fed up enough to roll off and undress himself, kicking off his boots and divesting himself of his trousers. It's nothing Braca hasn't seen before, but in this context... He tears off his shirts, trousers, pants, boots, everything, until he's sitting bare-eema on the turbolift floor. Scorpius traces his body first with his eyes then his nose then his tongue. He isn't so virginal as to not know what to do with that.

From base to tip and back down again. He paws at Braca's thighs, his Scarran-sharp nails scraping with every squeeze. It's quite nice—rather good for someone whose never done anything like this before—but not enough for starburst. Inhibitions or no, he doesn't quite trust those teeth to circle such a sensitive and irreplaceable part of his anatomy. He tips Scorpius' head up.

“Come up here.” He isn't used to giving orders—during recreation or otherwise—it isn't as fun as others make it seem, but he thinks dimly that given a few more rounds Scorpius might be ready to give orders of his own.

Scorpius slides up so that they're eye to eye, scrunched up against each other in the lift. Even with his legs bent, Scorpius barely fits. His head hangs over Braca's shoulder, he whispers hotly in his ear, “I like the way you smell.”

“I'm sweating like a Luxan.”

“It's nice.” He licks the sweat from Braca's sideburn.

There's more kissing and they quickly fall into a rhythm of bumping and grinding and rutting. It's nice—almost sentimentally so, reminding Braca of a youth he never spent in the backseat of hoversedans necking and rubbing up against the neighbor kid. The slickness of the leather, the sharpness of the fingernails poking at him through gloves, the inSebacean heat of the breath against his ear prevent that illusion from ever truly taking hold.

“Are you—” Braca wraps a leg around Scorpius, drawing even closer contact. “Are you—are you close?”

He feels Scorpius nod, the slickness of his leather hood sliding against Braca's cheek. Then there's a tongue doing circles on that cheek, then teeth scraping along carefully—and it's over for Braca. Starburst. “Scorpius... _sir_...”

No longer holding back out of courtesy (or pride), Scorpius ruts with abandon, surely planting the seeds of bruises that will bloom on Braca's hip overnight. (If Braca hadn't already finished, the thought of that would've done him in.) Braca feels the weight resting on top of him go taut, hears a hiss and an odd whirring noise, and then—

“Ow.” Blinded by pain, Braca grabs his nose, blood pooling quickly in his palm.

The weight of Scorpius is gone, across the lift by the sounds of it. “Shit, shit, shit,” he murmurs.

“What... Did you punch me?” If so, Scorpius is as bold as Braca took him.

He presses something cold into Braca's free hand. “I need you to...”

Braca slowly opens his eyes, feeling the two shiners that will be there soon. Scorpius is crouched in front of him, looking as frantic as that Banik of his. The metal device Braca recognizes from the patent—the intracranial canister—sticks out out of Scorpius' left temple, steaming and dripping at the end with a red liquid that has to be Braca's own blood. The rod in the canister is even redder than the blood, bringing to mind more immediacy and body horror.

“Insert the rod,” Scorpius finishes.

“Right. Of course.” Braca plucks out the spent rod, replacing it with the cold, blue one in his hand. He wipes the blood off the canister's end in order to press the button that sends the canister spinning back into Scorpius' head.

Scorpius looks relieved, properly post-orgasmic for a microt before stricken with panic at the sight of Braca's bloodied face. “I broke your nose.”

Braca rubs two fingers carefully along the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Yes, probably.”

“I apologize. I should've warned you.”

“That happens every time?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I have to have to Stark waiting in the wings whenever I want to have a wank.”

“Does it hurt?”

“The sensation is, well, more complicated than pain.”

“You do understand, then.”

“Maybe I do... Will you be alright? Do you need me to climb and get help?”

“I'll be fine. Just next time make sure you're clear of my face before you come.”

“Next time?”

“If you want to. This turbolift doesn't seem to be going anywhere.”

Scorpius smiles, holding up a thin metal box about the size of his hand. “You're in luck; I have three more.”

As the Enterprise hurtles into a dying planet, Scorpius frells Braca in the turbolift no less than three times.

It seems somehow appropriate.

–

Braca strides into Aeryn's quarters, not bothering ringing, his arms in the air in triumph. “I have deflowered the Starchild,” he announces. “I just thought you'd want to know.” He winks and swaggers out the door.

“Have you received the antidote yet?” she calls.

“Nope!”

–

After presenting Scorpius with his Terms of Service, things go along rather swimmingly between the two of them. (Not literally swimmingly. The cooling suit doesn't do well in chlorinated water.) Braca thinks they might have a good thing going on until Scorpius throws him out of his quarters halfway through aftercare.

It's all so sudden. One microt, he's getting the sweat licked off his eyelids. The next, he's in the corridor begging to get his clothes back.

“Scorpius...” he whines to a closed door.

“Here!” The door swishes open and a ball of clothes flies into Braca's face.

“Thank—” But the door is closed. Braca rifles through the clothing, locating and donning his pants, trousers, and... “This isn't even my shirt,” he yells at the door. “This is a pillowcase.”

More clothes aren't forthcoming, so Braca walks down the hall barefoot and bare chested, carrying a frelling pillowcase, before chiming at Aeryn's door.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asks, letting him inside.

“Scorpius kicked me out.”

“While you were...?” She lifts her eyebrows.

“After, when we were—”

“I don't need to know.”

Braca sighs. “Can I borrow a shirt?”

“Sure. I think I have one that'll fit.” She starts poking about in her dresser. “What happened? Why'd he toss you out?”

“I honestly don't know. I thought we were having a good time. He told a joke, I laughed, and then I'm out on my arse.”

“Are you certain it was a joke and not another comment on the plight of the Boolite people?”

“That was once, Aeryn, and it was a very ambiguous remark. That part about the famine seemed like a punchline at the time.”

“Here.” Aeryn throws him a baggy t-shirt. “What exactly did Scorpius say?”

He holds the shirt out in front of himself. “He said...” He stifles a chuckle at the memory. “'I love you.'”

Aeryn's smile falls. “And you laughed at this?”

“Yes.” He pulls the shirt on. “Thanks.”

“For how long?”

“What?”

“How long did you laugh? Was it just 'ha' or did you...?”

“More than 'ha.' Probably no more than two minutes.”

“Two minutes? I'm surprised he didn't clock you.”

“Why?”

“You took the man's virginity and when he told you that he loved you, you laughed in his face. For two minutes.”

“I still don't see what the problem is.”

“You are such a... I can't... Okay, now _I'm_ kicking you out.”

–

Scorpius isn't at their table for breakfast, but Stark shows up anyhow. “Here are your boots.”

“Thanks.” Braca feels the splash of ice water on his face before he can see the glass in Stark's hand.

“You're a dick,” Stark says, taking a seat at the table.

Braca wipes off his face. “I cannot believe you did that. You're the chaplain.”

“Consider it a baptism.”

“Why is everyone angry at me all of the sudden?”

“Because you're being a dick,” Aeryn says.

“You have gravely wounded Scorpius' pride,” Stark says. “He went out on a limb for you, and you—you cut done the tree and-and burned down the forest, orphaning _hundreds_ of small woodland animals!”

“I laughed at what I thought was a joke.”

“How could you think that was a joke?” Aeryn asks.

“What else would it be?”

“Is it so laughable that someone would love you?” Stark asks.

“Yes.” Aeryn and Stark share a funny look over Braca's head. “No one has ever said that to me before. No one has ever _loved_ me before.”

Stark lays a hand on Braca's arm. “I love you.”

“You love everyone. You don't count.”

“I know I don't,” Stark murmurs.

“Why would Scorpius love me? He's Sebacean. We don't do that.”

“My parents are Sebacean and they love each other,” Aeryn says. “And I love them.”

“Your family is an aberration. Most Sebaceans—”

“Scorpius isn't 'most Sebaceans.' He's half-Scarran and presently operating under the delusion that he's 'culturally Human,' whatever that means.”

“That would explain why he was so offended.”

“Exactly. If you want to get him back, or at least get him talking to you again, I suggest you treat him as you would a Human.”

–

Braca doesn't know much about the courtship habits of the modern Human. True, he has recreated with Humans upon numerous occasions, but none of that could be considered "courtship." The breadth of the social negotiation he's had with Human sexual partners doesn't extend beyond the walls of the various BDSM clubs he frequents. Reflecting on his inexperience in such matters, Braca is forced to consider if he even truly wants to relate to Scorpius on a Human level—as a Human would court another Human. He doesn't want a Human; he wants Scorpius. Scorpius, unfortunately, appears to have mixed up those two things.

He must again reflect upon whether or not he is truly willing to go through such an effort in such a foreign manner to re-acquire Scorpius' domination and sexual attention. Is he willing to go the distance to get Scorpius back? If so, what does that even mean? If by attempting regain Scorpius' affections through Human means, is Braca not signaling the beginning of a more Human association? With all of the requisite emotive qualities?

Braca doesn't think himself capable of such a commitment. In his own estimation, he is rather talented at committing himself to things—and people, especially—mostly because he is highly aware of his own abilities. Braca isn't the type to try and fail; he does not make an attempt unless he is reasonably sure he will succeed.

Does Scorpius have sufficient staying power to justify the type of commitment indicated by a Human gesture of reconciliation? Scorpius is quite unlike any Sebacean—any person—Braca has ever known. Scorpius is intelligent—like a tech—but with the ruthless determination of a commanding officer. He understands how people, particularly Humans work, to a degree that Braca could never achieve. He is also infinitely powerful, not just in body and mind, but in influence. Watching Scorpius get an admiral over subspace effortlessly, Braca had to recite multiplication tables to avoid presenting a physiological reaction that would be all too obvious in their naked protest in the brig. 

Braca likes power and he likes people who know how to wield it. And Scorpius wields power like no other. He's also learning to play Braca like a Vulcan lyre. In a few months—in a few cycles—imagine how far Scorpius could go? Then, perhaps, the Human rituals would be worth it.

How to perform such rituals and which rituals to perform remain beyond Braca's understanding.

There are numerous "how-to" texts contained within the ship's database, but the answers Braca needs are not there. He decides to go directly to the source, prevailing upon the knowledge of his Human crew mates as a valuable resource.

"Lieutenant Uhura, may I have a word?"

"Sure," she says questioningly. "Is this about the communications software?"

"No. This is of a personal nature."

"Oh.” 

“Is this all right?”

“Yes. I just didn't expect you to be the type to have a personal nature."

“Typically, I am not, but at present I require advice regarding relationships—of the romantic variety.”

“Wouldn't you rather go to Aeryn about this—unless...” She lowers her voice. “Is this about Aeryn?”

“No, Aeryn and I are merely friends.” He adds with pride, “Best friends. And while I would normally approach Aeryn for advice on social interaction, in this instance, I require the advisement of a Human.”

Uhura smiles, dimples blooming on her cheeks. “You've got yourself a Human sweetheart.” 

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“You sly dog.” She punches him lightly on the shoulder. “What do you want to know?”

“I have angered my 'sweetheart' to the point that I was bodily ejected from their quarters. I want to know how I can best signify to them that I regret my actions and wish to resume our romantic association.”

“Well, flowers are classic. You can't go wrong with some nice flowers.”

“I can't go wrong? Honestly?”

“Yeah. I'm sure they would love some flowers.”

“What kind of flowers?”

“Whatever's their favorite. If you don't know their favorite, you can always—”

“No, no. I'm quite positive I know what flower is their favorite.”

–

“Mr. Sulu, I require a most rare and exquisite flower and I need it as soon as possible.”

“I'm sorry, who are you?”

“Ah, yes. Introductions. I am Lieutenant Meeklo Braca. Helmsman. You are Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, head of the botany bay.”

“I know who I am.”

“Of course. I hear you are the man on the Enterprise to approach for plants.”

“That'd be me. What do you need?”

“Crystherium utila.”

“Wow, you weren't kidding when you said rare and exquisite.”

“I'm willing to pay any price.” He licks his lips. “ _Any price._ ”

“Oh, my... Mr. Braca, I don't charge anything. This is my job.”

“Suit yourself. When can you have it ready?”

“With the fertilizer we've been synthesizing? Two weeks.”

“Is there anything I can do to make that happen sooner? _Anythi_ —”

“If you leave right now, I can have your order ready five minutes sooner.”

“Excellent.”

–

The flower doesn't go over as well as Braca had anticipated. Apparently, expecting that a half-Scarran's favorite flower is a crystherium is “offensive.” Scorpius tells him as much, delivering another smack to his backside. 

“I only wanted to please you.” He turns his head, looking up at Scorpius. “That's all I ever want.”

“My personal frelltoy.”

“For as long as you'll keep me.”

Scorpius growls low in his throat like a Scarran, surging up to bite the back of Braca's neck. Holding a fold of Braca's skin between his teeth, he moans, “Oh, Mister Braca.”

“ _Sir._ ”

–

Scorpius licks a long stripe from Braca's clavicle to his hairline. Braca gives a soft moan. “Let's not break up again.” Still a little intoxicated on pleasure-pain, he doesn't know exactly what he's implying.

–

While he shares with Scorpius his suspicions about his feelings for him beforehand, Braca doesn't understand the depth of those feeling until he watches the tape.

Scorpius says they shouldn't watch it, but Braca can't stand not knowing what the rest of the galaxy has seen. After their meeting with Kirk, Braca goes back to his quarters alone and views the copy of the recording sent to him by the shore leave planet's police force.

Afterwards, he wishes he hadn't.

It is bad enough knowing that every Sebacean on Earth and half of Starfleet has watched his and Scorpius' typical recreative activities. Braca isn't adverse to being watched or watching—when it has been agreed upon by all the parties. But this video intrudes upon activities meant to be shared only between Braca and Scorpius, witnessing the almost-sacred trust they hold in one another.

No more is that trust more evident in the moment the newswires will spend hours picking to pieces.

_“Are you sure?” Braca asks, lying on top of Scorpius. The microphones pick up every word they say._

_“Yes.”_

_“Okay.” He slides down Scorpius, stopping when his head has reached Scorpius' crotch. His fingers trace the seam running along Scorpius' hip, searching for the zipper. When he finds it, he pulls carefully, drawing down the leather flap, revealing Scorpius' prick. Braca has never seen it before, but he's caressed it through the suit often enough to have a pretty good idea of what it might look like. He rubs two fingers along the well-trod path, eliciting a soft moan from Scorpius. Braca replaces fingers with tongue, lips, and a little teeth and doesn't pull away until Scorpius lets him, letting go of the hair on the back of his head. Touch starved there and having more skin exposed than usual, Scorpius finishes quickly (too quickly for Braca's liking, but he doesn't say anything), the cooling rod shooting out of his head with a satisfied sizzle. Braca shimmies up the bed to change it, leaving the flap open and Scorpius' genitals exposed to the camera mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed._

_It is at this point the film abandons its fairly naturalistic style of shooting Braca and Scorpius like an uncut wildlife documentary, beginning to utilize several editing techniques, particularly replay and the extreme close-up._

Braca can't stomach the knowledge that millions (if not billions) of people have seen a part of Scorpius that he keeps so intensely private. He forgets momentarily that everyone has seen a part of him that he keeps intensely private.

_Unpacking his clothes, Braca's face is directly in front of the camera. “I think I might...” He closes his eyes. “...love you.” His lips twitch into a smile. “But I'm not certain.”_

Braca can't understand the anger he feels at their exposure, can't put it into words, so he lets it stew until hears Loren snicker, “I wonder if he still loves him after seeing his boypussy.”

He responds as a Peacekeeper would to such a slight; he efficiently beats Loren until the man is curled in a ball on the deck and Aeryn is dragging Braca away, spitting, “You are a frelling idiot, Meeklo Braca.”

–

Somehow they get away with it mostly unpunished. Braca shoulders most of that burden—fair considering he started the fight without Scorpius' permission—in the form of weekly sessions with Dr. McCoy. They are... unpleasant.

Particularly when Dr. McCoy attempts “recreation therapy,” which is nowhere near what Braca expected when he first heard the term.

“I finished my drawing,” Braca says, putting down the ridiculous tiny writing implement Dr. McCoy had provided him with. Apparently, they are called crayons and the paper that encases them is not supposed to be removed. Braca found this out after unwrapping the entire package in an attempt to be helpful. Dr. McCoy was not pleased. Braca must admit he quite enjoys the little sharpener on the back of the box.

“Okay.” McCoy walks over from his desk. “Let's see.” He takes the drawing and sighs almost immediately. “I think I mighta found your problem. You're obsessed with Scorpius.” He shakes the paper.

“Doctor?”

“I asked you to draw something you love _besides Scorpius_ and you give me _another_ drawing of Scorpius. My god, is he naked in this one? Can he even do that?”

“Doctor, that is my cat.”

“What?”

“That is a drawing of my cat.”

“Really?” McCoy holds the drawing away from himself, peering at it from afar. “Huh. Since when do you have a cat?”

“Two months ago. We bought him from a reputable breeder on starbase 9.”

“You really ought've adopted instead. Though I suppose you couldn't've gotten one of them funny hairless cats from a shelter.” McCoy shivers. “Why'd you go for that breed? Neither of you are allergic.”

“Stark is.”

“Right... Uh, now that you and Scorpius are living together, is Stark still helping with...?”

“Yes, not as much as he used to. He does showers and suit cleanings and, obviously, changes cooling rods when I'm on-duty or otherwise occupied.”

“Does it wear on you? The responsibility?”

“No. I was bred for responsibility. Duty. Commitment.”

“Well, that's marriage for you.”

“Truly?”

“In my experience, yes. Of course, in _my_ experience, I've found that a willingness to completely surrender yourself to your spouse's every whim is necessary for a happy marriage, so don't take my word for it.”

–

When Braca returns to their shared cabin, Scorpius is at his desk reading with the cat (whom they have named Harvey after Aeryn's insistences that referring to him as The Cat would be meta and obnoxious) on his lap, leeching heat. (Having no fur, the cat is nearly as particular about temperature as Scorpius.)

“How was Dr. McCoy?” he asks, not looking away from his console.

“Helpful.” Braca removes his gold uniform shirt, draping it carefully over a chair.

“Really?”

“Yes. I believe he is the first therapist I have ever seen who has provided insight into my life.”

“And what would that be?”

“Under certain Human definitions, I am uniquely suited to be married—” (They'd given up saying “pretend-married” a month prior after Stark's insistences that being the last Scarran, Scorpius could make their pretend Scarran blood vow mean whatever he wishes, and that most marriages were illusions anyway.) “—to you.”

Scorpius looks up. “Come here.”

“Yes, sir.” Braca cross over to the desk and stands at attention—there's more heat in his gaze at this superior than there ever is at Kirk.

Scorpius picks up the black leather collar from its spot on the shelf, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “On your knees.”

Braca ducks his head, hiding a smile, as he lowers himself to the deck.

The cool leather, warmed in spots by Scorpius' fingers, slides around Braca's neck, buckling easily from repeated use. “Good boy. You can sit.”

Braca finds a comfortable position, resting his head up against the side of Scorpius' chair. In a moment, there's a tongue cleaning a tuft of his hair. Harvey hasn't lived with them long enough for Braca to be able to determine by sensation alone if it is the cat on Scorpius' lap or Scorpius himself giving him a bath.

“I don't know how well you've studied Human history,” Scorpius says. The cat it is then. “But in the past, one spouse, the female usually, was considered the _property_ of the other.”

That's one aspect of Scorpius' Human cultural identity Braca would not want to educate away.

–

Coda:

"Here," McCoy says, setting a box on the table. "Maybe you'll like these better than the crayons."

Braca opens the thin box, letting the contents slide out into his hand. "Wood?"

"That's the casing. There's pigment on the inside. It comes out of the ends."

Braca flips the little sticks over. "Ah. Of course." He looks up at McCoy. "What am I to draw?"

"Friendship. Whatever that means to you."


	5. McCoy: Some of My Best Friends are Baniks

_“Dr. McCoy, Mr. Spock and I will handle this.”  
“Without me, Jim? You'd never find your way back.”_  
—Kirk and McCoy, “For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky”

–

McCoy has got to admit he's a little nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise. He'd be crazy not to, especially after the talk he had with Chris Pike.

"Admiral, I'm thankful for the opportunity," McCoy said, "but isn't there someone more experienced for this position? I mean, goddamn, it's the flagship. I've only been in Starfleet for a few years. I've never even served on a starship before."

"I'm confident you're the best man for the job," Pike said. "You are by far the most experienced xenobiologist clinician in the fleet. The Enterprise will have more non-Humans serving on her than any other Starfleet vessel. That makes you the only man the admiralty could trust with the position."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome." Pike maneuvered his wheelchair away from his desk, sidling it up against McCoy's chair. He pivoted, facing McCoy head on. "You no doubt are aware of my special relationship with Mr. Scorpius."

"Yeah. He's quite a little prodigy, isn't he?"

"He is. Scorpius—the Starchild—is incredibly important both to me and Starfleet. And perhaps even to the Federation itself. The maintenance of his health is of utmost importance. If he were to perish during this mission, the ramifications would be dire. Do you understand?"

"I do. I'll do my best to keep Scorpius alive and well."

"I'm afraid you don't understand the gravity of what I'm saying. You will not 'do your best to keep Scorpius alive.' You _will_ keep him alive. At any cost."

"I will, sir."

"Very good. You're dismissed."

Jesus. 

Oddly, though, the perhaps impossible task of keeping alive and in good health a man whose own genetics are conspiring to kill him isn't what daunts McCoy the most. When he says he's nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise he means he's nervous about serving _aboard_ the Enterprise. As in, on a starship up in outer space only accessible by transporter beam or by another little spaceship with a rinky-dink engine.

They say getting there's half the battle. They weren't lying.

McCoy is sweating bullets as he waits for his group's turn on the transporter. He's never used one of these things before, but he's spent enough time reading about malfunctions in medical journals to know that he doesn't want anywhere near it. McCoy's also spent enough time reading about phobias in medical journals to know that he probably has one.

He's not the only one, apparently. The ship chaplain—the metal-faced fella who's supposed to play home health aide for Pike's pride and joy—holds up their transporter group with one helluva tantrum.

“No! I can't! It's not—I will be lost forever, disassembled into a frillion disparate atoms, separated eternally from the Goddess, futilely attempting to pull myself together for the rest of time! Do—you—understand?”

“Sir,” the transporter technician says, “the transporter process is completely safe. Your atoms will be reassembled properly aboard the Enterprise.”

“Yes, yes—in this realm. But what about mine? Does this contraption work in Banikera? Have you even heard of Banikera?”

“Stark,” Scorpius admonishes, placing a firm hand on Stark's shoulder. “Just get on the transporter pad. You'll be fine.”

“I'll be fine, I'll be fine. I'll be dead! I'll be worse than dead—I'll be completely insane!”

“Imagine that.”

“Sir.” The transporter tech sighs. “Sir, if you do not get on the transporter, I'll be forced to call security.”

“Call them! Call security!” Stark yells, gesticulating wildly. “I don't care. I have seen more horrors than your worldly, secularist, patriarchal Starfleet security force could ever hope to deliver. Unless they have a budong. Do they have a budong? No, no budong. No transporter! No!”

The transport tech rolls his eyes, reaching for his comm. “Security to—”

“Ensign,” McCoy says, stepping forward. “Let's hang on for a minute. This man—Stark, is it?—is obviously highly disturbed by the idea of using the transporter. He's whipped himself up into a lather over it. Now, far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, I'm just an old country doctor, but wouldn't it be easier to call for a shuttlecraft than to force him onto that pad—or even, god forbid, throw him in the brig over it? If you get him a shuttlecraft to the Enterprise, I'll personally escort him and make sure he doesn't give you or your friends any more trouble.”

And that's how McCoy avoids using the transporter—for the time being, anyway.

The shuttlecraft isn't much better, mind you. Stark likes it more than the transporter; he's stopped raving about other dimensions. But McCoy—the moment they clear Earth's atmosphere, he feels the walls of the vessel closing in on him. The air gets hot and thin—the gravity heavy and unreal.

He unclips his seatbelt. “I gotta—I gotta... Jesus...” He grabs at his throat, feeling it close. “I need to get outta here.” He stumbles toward the emergency exit, using the empty seats to keep his balance.

The Starchild looks up from his padd. “What are you doing?”

“I need air.”

“You're _insane_.”

“Ugh...” McCoy throws himself on the emergency release lever, but before he can push down, Scorpius throws him across the craft and into Stark. As McCoy struggles to get back to the door, Stark wraps his arms around him, pulling him to the deck.

“Shh, rest, doctor.”

“No.” McCoy twitches against Stark's hold. “Gotta get that door open.”

“Here.”

McCoy feels a light flood down onto his face and then— _He's in the middle of a giant greenhouse, surrounded by hundreds of flowers—tall and uniform in their beauty. The air is fragrant, sweet, smelling full of life and possibility._ “What is that? What did you show me?”

“The memory of a place I saw when I was a boy.”

“One helluva place.”

“It's not there anymore.”

McCoy reaches up, tracing his fingertips along Stark's mask. “You're really alien, aren't you?”

–

In his line of work, McCoy's met a lot of aliens, but none of 'em quite match up to Stark, who isn't just from another planet, he's from another plane of reality. He wasn't kidding when he compared Stark to an angel—he's literally a creature of light.

Up until meeting Stark, McCoy thought of aliens mostly as, well, Humans with strange cultural beliefs and remarkable physiologies. His sensitivity training at Starfleet Academy taught him that much. But Stark... he's proof that we're not all the same. Stark is _different_. And not just because he was taught to believe different things than McCoy when he was growing up or because his body works differently than a Human's. He is not of this world.

Stark is not life as McCoy knows it and he truly defies any attempt to jam him into the Federation system of classifying life forms.

Life on the Enterprise is like good science fiction, but Stark is something straight out of fantasy—or mythology.

It's not just the telepathy. Many species—including a few Humans—have psionic powers, but Stykera use theirs to traverse realities and there's no scientific explanation for any of it. Not that the remaining Baniks—the handful of refugees living on a compound in Australia—have been very open to scientific inquiry. It seems they're afraid of turning into the Federation's newest lab animal. (McCoy can't blame them, considering what Starfleet Medical did with the Starchild.)

“Back when you were, uh, living under Scarran rule,” McCoy starts, “did they ever try to figure out the science behind you folks?”

“The science?”

“You know, a... a worldly explanation for how that light of yours works?”

“No, I don't believe so. The Scarrans and the Peacekeepers are only interested in studying something if they can weaponize it. Baniks, by our very nature, are creatures of peace. I suppose that's why we were so easy to enslave.”

Stark is also prone to saying things like that—sad things belying generations of trauma—without giving them much significance. Still, even with those depressing non-sequiturs, Stark manages to be more spirited than most of the Humans on board, especially the ones closer to McCoy's age. He realizes that those crew members had their own trauma—the war, for one—but outside of his role as a doctor, he just wants to tell them to lighten up. As chief medical officer, he knows he should cultivate a close personal relationship with the captain to better understand his emotional state to know when he needs to be relieved of command, but Kirk pulls away whenever McCoy tries to get him to talk about anything more personal than what he had for breakfast that morning. And, really, he should be getting close with the top rungs of the chain of command to know if any of them are fit for command when the captain is not, but getting emotionally intimate with a Vulcan is like trying to burn water and Scotty... 

Scotty is a good man. The Federation owes a lot to Scotty. But he's a ridiculously high-functioning alcoholic who McCoy would put on immediate medical leave to dry out if the admiralty would let him. Whenever he brings up Scotty's addiction to the admiral in charge of rehabilitation, McCoy gets a load of bull about Scotty having earned being allowed to have "a few drinks" after what he did during the war. The war might have given Scotty alcoholism, but he sure as hell didn't "earn" it. And he doesn't deserve the enabling jokers on the rehabilitation board excusing him, like getting treatment is some kind of punishment. That viewpoint is one of the many problems with the organization of Starfleet medical services. Treatment for addiction is under the purview of the disciplinary arm of the admiralty instead of part of Starfleet medical. So high command hands out rehab referrals like they're prison sentences rather than prescriptions for medically necessary treatment. McCoy devotes too much energy trying to get Scotty help to spend his off hours making friends with the guy. Which is a real shame because he's a nice guy. Although that might be the booze.

Lonely and a little scared, McCoy grafts himself onto Stark—the first friendly (half-)face he met in the crew. Stark seems to appreciate McCoy's friendliness, as well, spending most of his free time lounging about in sickbay, like he's waiting for something. McCoy's honestly a little flattered until their first casualty dies on McCoy's operating table under the light streaming from Stark's face.

"What the hell was that?" McCoy snaps, coming out of the operating room.

"What do you mean?" Stark asks.

"That! What you did in there to Hines."

"I eased him into the next life. That is my purpose."

"Is that why you've been hanging around here?"

"Yes."

"You've just been waiting for someone to die? Like a damn vulture?"

"Not like a vulture. I don't eat them. I assist them. I make it easier for them to reach the next realm."

"You help them die?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"I don't know if you know this, but folks in the Federation have been dyin' without Stykera for a long time. They don't exactly need your help to get dead."

"I don't kill them. I—You wouldn't understand; you've never died."

"Yeah, and I don't plan on doing that anytime soon, so maybe you should try to figure out a way to explain it to me."

"It... Dying can be very scary."

"I've gathered that on my own."

"No, not a fear of death. The process itself—the process of leaving the body for the next destination—it can be very confusing and scary. Like getting lost in an airport."

"But you help them get to the right terminal?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Do you plan on doing this every time someone in this crew dies?"

"Whenever I can. My responsibilities to Mr. Scorpius come first."

"Scorpius comes before your purpose. Your higher calling?"

"Scorpius needs my help. He comes before everything."

"You had a little chat with Pike, too, didn't you?"

Stark ducks his head. "Yes, but now... Scorpius is my best friend. I'd be at his side in an instant anyway."

"You're a sweet kid, Stark." McCoy doesn't know the Starchild too well, but he doubts whether he's worthy of the kind of loyalty he inspires in Pike and Stark. "You can, uh, do your thing in here whenever you want."

"Thank you. I thank you. The dead thank you."

"Tell the dead they're welcome."

–

McCoy gets his first real trial as a CMO—his Kobayashi Maru, if you will—fairly early on in the five year mission when the Enterprise visits Psi 2000, a planet nearing collapse, to investigate the deaths of Starfleet personnel there. The investigation isn't too difficult—a little inexplicable as to the reason why they're all dead—and most of that is outside McCoy's department. It's what results from the investigation—some green-as-grass lieutenant taking his glove off in a contaminated area and bringing god-knows-what back aboard. Truly god-knows-what, because McCoy doesn't have a clue. But whatever it is, it's making everyone who's contaminated by it act like they're drunk, losing all inhibition and doing whatever their deeply-seated desires would have them. Which, for some of the people on the planet, meant taking a shower with their clothes on. McCoy is a live-and-let-live kind of guy, understanding a wide variety of hopes and dreams in his fellow man, but for the life of him, he can't feel anything but pity for whatever poor sap was going through life passionately desiring to shower with their clothes on. He doesn't have any objections to people showering with their clothes on, but for that to be the first thing someone does when they lose all inhibition? That's just sad. 

Sulu, at the very least, had a rather imaginative and fanciful spree following his infection, running around like one of the Three Musketeers stranded in the 23rd century. Unfortunately, Sulu's little role play had the effect of infecting almost all the crew when some of his sweat made it's way into the ship's ventilation system. McCoy guesses that what's happened. Being the head of the department, Sulu would have been in the botany bay where the ship's ventilation system sucks up oxygen from the plants and distributes it around the ship. Sulu's sweat must have gotten mixed into that oxygen.

But how? The ventilation system filters the oxygen out of the air from the botany bay. It should have filtered out the contaminant. Unless... Unless...

The ship rocks, sending McCoy into a bulkhead. "Jesus!”

McCoy tries his comm again. "Sickbay to bridge! Anyone there?"

There's a few minutes of static before an answer. "Er, yes, er... Stark here."

"Stark? The hell are you doing on the bridge?"

"I don't really know. I was trying to find Scorpius. He and Braca were on the bridge and they got in the turbolift without me and then—then the lift stalled and-and now I'm stuck."

"Is there anyone else up there with you?"

"No. I'm all alone."

"Jesus."

"No, not even him."

"Uh, goddamnit. Can you tell me why we're rocking about like a boat in a storm?"

"Er, I don't know how to read any of the instruments, but from the viewscreen, it looks like we're crashing into a planet."

"What?"

"Yes, it very clearly looks like we're all going to die."

"My god! You've got to do something! Can't you... turn us around?"

"I don't know how! I've never flown a starship before!"

"But you've passed over people who have. Can't you... I don't know!"

"I could... I could, in theory, access their knowledge, but that would be... It would be..."

"What? What would it be?"

"It would be very dangerous."

"You telling me you could get hurt?"

"No. I would be fine, but everyone else... they might not be so lucky. My light could overpower them psionically."

"I think everyone on board would prefer being overpowered psionically—whatever that means—to crashing into a planet."

"Okay. I'll try. But if people are angry about it later, you have to tell them it was your idea."

"Will do, kid. Now, go do your thing."

"Stark out."

"Acting Captain Stark out," McCoy corrects.

"Right. Acting Captain Stark out."

McCoy realizes that he just handed over the Enterprise to a guy who he finds asleep in a cupboard at least twice a week. "God help us," McCoy mutters, turning back to his work. "What was I..." Right, the ventilation system only allows for the distribution of oxygen. That isn't quite right. McCoy remembers a few weeks ago when there was a hose burst in the botany bay. The whole ship got muggy from the water sucked in by the ventilation system. So, that's two things: water and oxygen. Neither of which can get people drunk. Usually. McCoy runs the sample of Sulu's sweat again. “What the...” Polymerized water. There was polymerized water in Sulu's blood panel earlier. It's the only thing that's off with either of those samples. That has to be it. And, by god, isn't that easy to fix?

McCoy's injecting Sulu with a hypospray when Stark comms. “McCoy here. Hold on a second.” He holds the comm away from his face. “Sulu, how are you feeling?”

“I feel fine,” Sulu says. “What happened?”

“I'll tell you later. I need you to take those hypos over there and start jabbing as many people with 'em as you can, you got me?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Stark, what's going on?”

“Doctor,” Stark says, “I'm getting the Enterprise to pull out of the planet's orbit, but I... I have to know. Did you feel anything when I...?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“Good. That's good. Er, you might want to hold onto something.”

“Hold onto—” The ship lurches, pressing McCoy up against a biobed. “Stark! What the hell was that?”

“Um, I appear to have sent us backwards in time.”

“How the hell did you managed that?”

“I have no idea.”

“You're something, Stark.”

–

McCoy's closer to Stark after that—he supposes you can't save a starship together and not end up being good friends—spending time off-duty together. Just talking. It's nice. To have someone to talk to. Stark doesn't do much talking himself. Just lets McCoy ramble on, listening intently, really feeling what McCoy has to say. And McCoy maybe says more to Stark than he does to anyone else on this ship combined. The words come easily and carelessly.

"Georgia's just gorgeous this time of year. My hometown—Augusta—this time of year, it looks just like _Gone with the Wind_. Uh, the first part of _Gone with the Wind_ , not the Civil War stuff."

" _Gone with the Wind_?"

"It's an old movie. A classic, really. You oughta watch it sometime."

It isn't until ten o'clock that evening that McCoy realizes he recommended _Gone with the Wind_ to a former slave. He hops out of bed, pulls on some clothes, and heads down to Stark's quarters. But it's too late. The damage has been done. Stark stares at the vidscreen, frowning, as the end credits roll.

"Stark..."

"Is that what you think of me?"

They don't talk anymore after that. Stark haunts sickbay the same as ever, but it's not the same. He doesn't talk. He waits.

For six months, McCoy is on his own, barely holding on. The only person he talks to—really talks to—is his daughter—and even then that's over subspace and only once a month (not to mention that Joanna spends most of their face time talking about planning her mother's impending nuptials). Then one day Stark approaches him. "You want my forgiveness."

"Yes." It's an awful time to be having this conversation; there was just an awful fight in the mess hall. Three ensigns beaten something awful by the Starchild and his boytoy.

"I will forgive you, but you have to do something for me. A favor."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"Can it wait? I'm up to my ears—"

"I need you to help Scorpius and Braca."

"Help? Not even an act of god could help them right now. They're sunk. Their Starfleet careers are over."

"Not if you tell Kirk what really happened."

"What would that be?"

“When Scorpius saw his mate being threatened, he went into a Scarran blood rage.”

“Scarran blood...? There's no such thing as a Scarran blood rage!”

“There could be.”

“I'm the pre-eminent expert on Scarran biology and—”

“That's why Kirk will believe you.”

“You want me to lie to the captain? Risk my career? Sorry, kid, I don't need friends that badly.”

“If you won't do it for me, do it for them.”

God damn it.

McCoy does it—of course, he does it—because he knows what is on that recording, what everyone has now seen, and what Loren said. What Scorpius and Braca did wasn't right, but there's no justice in punishing them after what they went through. McCoy's never been one to let professional ethics get in the way of his personal morality.

And, somehow, despite himself, he's become one of those people doing whatever they can for Scorpius.

–

For all that, Stark doesn't forgive him. He tries. He spends more time around sickbay. He listens to McCoy the way he used to, but he's not really there. He's cagey, on edge.

“Is something wr—” McCoy reaches out to touch Stark's shoulder, but he flinches away, shielding himself like he thinks McCoy is going to hit him. “Jesus, Stark.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Stark is groveling. This being of pure light—this impossibly powerful person is groveling to McCoy like he is—like he is... He can't even think it.

“Stark, it's all right. I'm not mad.”

“Okay.” Stark nods, pulling himself away from McCoy.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“I try not to be, but I find it hard to trust you. It's hard to trust a person when a major part of their personality is nostalgia for a time and a place when their people owned slaves.”

“Stark... slavery was a long time ago.”

“It wasn't for me. You could own me today if you wanted.”

“I don't and never would.”

“I know, but...”

“You can't trust me.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know this when you said you'd forgive me?”

Stark nods. “I'm sorry I lied to you. I thought I could at least pretend to—”

“Stand being around me?” McCoy shakes his head. “Why would you set yourself up for something like that?”

“Scorpius and Braca were in trouble and they're my friends. I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're not a man with many friends, Dr. McCoy.”

“We were friends once.”

“Were we?”

–

“You ever have any troubles with the other one?” Kirk asks McCoy. “I know he likes to hang around here.”

“Stark? No, he's good kid. A little squirrelly, but he's good with the dying. Makes it easier on them somehow. Although, now that you mention it, I do find him hiding in the supply cabinets sometimes. I don't know what that's about.” McCoy's had more trouble with Stark than he can bear to talk about, but he knows couldn't even begin to consider telling the captain about it unless they're both completely soused.

Luckily, he has a bottle of single barrel bourbon in his cabin.

“Jim...” He lifts his head up (with a little effort) and looks at Kirk. “Can I call you Jim?”

“Yeah, but you've been doing that for a while.”

“Well, now I have the captain's permission.”

Jim barks a laugh at that, which gets McCoy going, which wakes up Spock, who was dozing with his head on McCoy's shoulder. Spock reaches out, his eyes still closed as he paw at Kirk's face. “Stark,” he mumbles.

McCoy groans. “Don't get me started on Stark. I don't think two people have screwed up a relationship that badly since I got divorced.”

Spock's eyes blink open. “You were in a relationship with Stark?”

“Oooh,” Jim coos. “Was the good doctor playing doctor with my chaplain?”

“Naw. Nothing like,” McCoy says. “It was nothing like that. We were friends. I thought we were friends, but I messed things up. Or he messed things up. I'm not sure. It's complicated.”

“That's the problem nowadays. It's all so complicated. I used to be able to go to bed at night knowing I did the right thing, but now ever since the war... Do you get what I'm saying?”

“No.”

“I understand, captain,” Spock says. “Jim. The Scarran Conflict irrevocably changed my perception of myself and the universe.”

McCoy snorts. “The war ended fifteen years ago. Get over it already.”

“Get over it?” Kirk repeats. “You weren't there, Bones. You were—you were—I dunno where you were, but you weren't there. You didn't have to kill anyone.”

“Neither did you.” That earns McCoy a shove off the couch. “Ow.”

“You have no idea what you're talkin' about.”

“So, tell me, oh wise one.”

“Okay, fine...”

Following a pact made the next morning, McCoy isn't allowed to share what happens next, but, to give you an idea, it involves a lot of crying and ends with all three of them falling asleep in a pile on the floor.

McCoy comes into sickbay the next morning desperately hungover and looking like death. Stark says as much. “What happened to you? You look like Death.”

“I made friends.” McCoy rubs his forehead. “It was awful.”


	6. Spock: Banik Pixie Dream Girl

_“Outsiders think that we do not feel. But it's only that our feelings don't always show.”_  
—Stark, “The Hidden Memory”

_“Jim, I just lost my planet. I can tell you, I am emotionally compromised.”_  
—Spock Prime, _Star Trek_

–

Spock does not have the same emotional trauma stemming from the Scarran Conflict that his fellow veterans aboard the Enterprise appear to have acquired. Mr. Scott drowns his guilt in alcohol. The captain fights alienation with casual sex. Spock, however, is a Vulcan and therefore entirely unaffected emotionally.

So, resist the urge to invest Spock's current actions with any deeper meaning.

Sitting alone, in the dark (preserving both energy and his eyesight), Spock replays the clip on his console for the fourth time this evening.

_“Having thoroughly reviewed your testimony and Starfleet service record, the High Council has determined that your actions during the Scarran Conflict constitute an act of genocide. Your Vulcan citizenship and membership in the Vulcan seek have been revoked. You may appeal this decision after the requisite waiting period—in this case, set at one hundred and thirteen years. In the interim, you are forbidden from visiting any space station, planet, or other geological formation under Vulcan control. Under Federation code five-alpha-seven referring to commerce and culture, whensoever it would be profitable to you, you are forbidden from marketing yourself as Vulcan—or, in this instance, half-Vulcan. Due to the extreme nature of your crime, any property or capital you hold on Vulcan land will be seized and donated to the sole survivor of the genocide you enacted—a Mr. Scorpius of Terra. If you should file an appeal and the council's decision be reversed, that donation will not be returned to you. Do you understand the terms of your sentence as I have explained them?”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

Spock stops the clip there, freezing it on his one last moment of childish defiance before being beamed off Vulcan forever. He doesn't plan on filing an appeal.

Being a man without a country would likely affect Spock more were he Human or if he ever truly belonged in Vulcan society.

As he is, it is rather easy to ignore his banishment. He goes fifteen years without talking about it until he finds himself intoxicated on polywater, sharing sorrows with Aeryn Sun.

“My mother...” She chokes back a sob. “My mother wants me to be her, but I can't. I'm...” She lays her head on the table, crying.

Spock pats her hair. “You have to live your life.”

“I know, but...”

“Doing so doesn't lessen the pain you feel at your parent's rejection.”

“Exactly.” She looks up at him, snot streaming down her face. “It's like you're seeing into my soul.”

“My father disapproved of me joining Starfleet, too. He disowned me because of it. Then he banished me from my home planet.”

“That's awful.”

“I know,” Spock sobs, laying his head on Aeryn's shoulder.

She wraps her arms around him, bringing him into a hug. “I miss my mummy,” she cries into the crook of his neck.

“As do I.”

He's spared any further humiliation by a bright, white light searing the psionic core of his being. It feels like... It feels like an orgasm dipped in chocolate fondue. He flinches away from Aeryn. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

After the polywater is cleared from his system, Spock doesn't take long to conclude that the likeliest source of the psionic pulse—as he has taken to terming it—was Chaplain Stark, the only other telepath on board the Enterprise since the unfortunate incident involving the galactic barrier and Dr. Dehner. Spock plans to confirm with the chaplain that he created the pulse, and, if so, caution Stark from taking such liberties with his own psionic being again. The experience was no doubt pleasurable on Spock's end, but any Vulcan caught being as _generous_ with their psionic abilities as Stark would find themselves sleeping in a tent on Delta Vega.

Tracking Stark down is easier said than done—even with the ship's censors. Having used the computer to locate Stark three times and not finding him in the room specified, Spock resorts to meeting Stark at the one location he is guaranteed to be on a regular basis: his weekly sermons in the ship's chapel, where Stark appears to be having some difficulty with maintaining the non-denominational stance of the Galactic Commission of Military Chaplains. No mean feat in a galaxy of over three thousand known religions.

“Some people,” Stark says, leaning his elbows on his podium, “believe that all life sprung from a large explosion. Other people believe that life was intelligently designed by a higher being.” When Spock (and much of the largely female congregation) thinks Stark is going to go in for a comparison, Stark continues on with a list. “Other people believe life on this plane of reality descended from a higher plane. Then some other people believe life doesn't exist at all except for in their own mind. Other people believe...” Stark continues in this fashion for twenty-two minutes, before checking the chronometer, smiling at the time passed. “Let us now partake in the sacramental wine.” Stark removes three bottles of wine from behind his podium—more than enough for his dozen or so parishioners.

As far as Spock knows, the ritual that follows does not belong to any of the galaxy's three thousand religions. Unless sitting on the floor while swilling wine straight from the bottle is a Banik holy rite.

“I mean,” Lieutenant Masters starts, “I don't know why I'm not lab chief yet.”

Uhura passes her a bottle. “Girl, you know why.”

Masters sighs and takes a swig before handing the bottle down to Yeoman Rand, who shakes her head. “None for me.”

Nurse Chapel snags the bottle. “Your loss.”

Observing from the corner of the room, Spock is disturbed by the display. He never expected any of the fine women serving aboard the Enterprise to drink wine to the point of mild intoxication on a Sunday morning. The participation of Mr. Scott, the only male present besides Spock and Stark, is less jarring.

“There's nothing quite like church wine,” Scotty says, handing the bottle off to Stark.

Stark takes a modest sip. “It is very generous of Starfleet to provide us with this.”

Spock speaks up, “Starfleet requisitions sacramental wine for religious rituals, not recreation.”

“And who's to say this isn't a religious ritual?” Scotty slurs.

“Yeah.” Uhura smiles. “Some people believe that we all evolved from ethanol,” she quotes Stark's sermon. “We're just paying tribute to our ancestors.”

Spock raises his eyebrows. “Pardon my intrusion in this 'ritual,' but I require Chaplain Stark's attention.”

With a good deal of eye-rolling, the ritual breaks up and its participants file out, leaving Spock alone with Stark. “Am I in trouble?”

“No. As Mr. Scott so cogently argued, your use of the sacramental wine could very well constitute a sacred ritual. I am here to speak with you about something I perceived telepathically during our mission to Psi 2000.”

Stark winces. “You felt that?”

“I did not feel. I perceived. Am I correct in assuming you were the source?”

"Yes, but it wasn't my idea. And Dr. McCoy will vouch for that. And it was necessary to save the ship. I didn't know how to fly the Enterprise but some people—"

"You raided the minds of the crew for the information."

"Only the dead ones. What you felt was the loosening of my telepathic control to access their memories."

"Why wasn't this included in the statement you gave about the incident?"

"Sir... keeping the abilities of the Banik people secret is fundamental to our survival. Were Starfleet to know everything that we could do..."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Even the Vulcan people, known for the pragmatism, keep certain aspects of their culture private from the Federation."

"Their culture? Aren't you Vulcan?"

"Half-Vulcan on a biological level. Culturally, I am..."

"Human?"

"Prohibited from identifying as Vulcan."

"Oh."

"Chaplain, as another telepath, I must caution you from using your abilities in such a fashion. Not only does it endanger the sacredness of your species' abilities, but you must also consider the effect it has on the condition of your own mind."

"My mind?"

"Yes. By sharing yourself with so many, you risk losing yourself. Losing the sanctity of your mind."

"You needn't worry, Mr. Spock. I won't be doing anything like that again and I don't have a mind to tarnish."

Spock raises an eyebrow, working to parse that idiom. "Chaplain, while you have no formal theological training—" (A fact Spock takes some trouble with, but as Dr. McCoy once said, "He's Stykera! You wouldn't ask an angel to go to the seminary!") "—you are no doubt an intelligent, young man with a functioning mind to offer his parishioners. Starfleet would not have contracted you otherwise."

"Thank you, sir. But what I mean is that, as a species, Baniks do not have minds to speak of. We are creatures of pure telepathic energy. You might say we are all spirit."

"Fascinating." Spock feels the familiar itch in his fingertips, aching to reach and _taste_ —an itch that has led him astray in the past, an itch mostly subdued for a time, until awakened by the demands of duty. If not for the good of the Enterprise and the safety of the his crew mates—and out of a respect for the sanctity of all living beings—Spock would have never fallen back into the habit of wanting. The mother Horta does not know what Spock sacrificed to save her and her offspring. The impossible sensation he experienced due to Stark's labors only enflamed that itch, pressing it hard in the back of Spock's mind. And, now, a palpable physical sensation of that want.

He should go, leave Stark now that the man has been properly warned about psionic impropriety, but... If Stark has no mind to lose, then the risk would be Spock's alone. And it is not as if there is anyone for Spock to save it for. The way Spock's guided meditation has been progressing, he will likely die during his first pon farr. If that never comes to pass (and a cynical portion of Spock believes that it must—as a half-breed, he is destined to possess all of Vulcanity's defects and none of its benefits), Spock faces an increased probability of death during the next four years due to Captain Kirk's recklessness and Spock's sworn duty to protect his life.

Spock's sanity and purity will surely last him for at least the next four years, even if he... Even if he...

"Chaplain, would you like to join me for dinner?"

–

“I am surprised to hear that Stykera consume meat,” Spock says, setting another portion of salad onto Stark's plate.

“Baniks eat what we can to survive.” Spock can see that; Stark is on his third serving.

“And it does not weigh on you spiritually?”

“No.” Stark wipes his mouth. “The distinction between plant and animal isn't so great when you grow up alongside sentient plants. Of course, to a Banik, plants and animals are just two different categories of corporeal life from this realm.”

“Yet you yourself present as animal in this realm.”

“It isn't a choice... The Baniks present in this realm were selectively bred to appear similar to their first masters.”

“Sebaceans?”

“Yes.”

“As an emotional creature, how then can you socialize so closely with Lieutenants Sun and Braca?”

Stark stares down at an olive on his plate. “Many times it is easier to be among other aliens—even Sebaceans—than it is to be among Humans. As a species, the Humans have been quite kind to my people, but that kindness can manifest as an over-eagerness to help, even when that help isn't wanted or needed.”

Spock finishes his bite of food. “I have heard reports of the Banik compound's difficulties with visiting missionaries.”

Stark looks up from his plate, his manner somehow brighter. “The Pope visited when I was young. He left rather quickly.”

“I imagine he did not like being told his understanding of the cosmos was wrong.”

“Not wrong, just incomplete. I remember him being mad when one of the adults suggested that the Virgin Mary might be one of the many iterations of the Goddess.” He smiles. “The Mormons were nice, very persistent. They still send us casseroles.”

“Do you like casserole? I have programmed into the synthesizer a number of the vegetarian casseroles my mother prepared when I was a child. I could serve one the next time we have dinner. That is, if you wish to dine with me again.” 

“That would be nice.”

Spock wasn't initially intending on supping with Stark multiple times, assuming he could follow his captain's example in “closing the deal” quickly, but Banik culture is _fascinating_ and, being an emotional creature, Stark would be unlikely to engage in close philosophical discussions with Spock after receiving “the brush-off.”

Spock serves green bean casserole, which proves palatable to Stark, but not as tasty as the Mormon recipe. (“I don't think anyone is as good at making casseroles as the Church of Latter-Day Saints.”) Their conversation centers around the same topics as their previous dinner with Stark doing most of the talking at Spock's gentle prodding.

“I know what people think about Stykera—those who know about us.” Stark pushes a bit of green bean around his plate with a fork. “To other telepaths, we're like candy. Telepathic candy.”

“I was not aware of this reputation.”

Stark's eye slowly drags from his plate, across the table, and up to Spock's face. “Of course,” he says, his voice lower than usual. “Are you as telepathic as a full-Vulcan?”

“Vulcan telepathy levels run a broad spectrum, but I have been told I am quite... gifted.”

“In my duties as Stykera, I have made contact with a variety of species, but never a Vulcan... I've heard rumors that your priestesses can raise the dead.”

“In the past, yes.”

“To my people, that would be an abomination.”

“Indeed.”

Stark licks his lips, which always look a little chapped. “You look like the being many Terran cultures called the Devil.”

“I have been told as much.”

In one fell swoop, Stark throws the table to the deck (impressive, considering it is bolted to the wall), sending the remaining casserole splattering across the room. For a moment, Spock thinks he has misread the situation entirely, formulating an exit strategy as Stark advances. But then Stark grabs Spock's wrist, radiating want and the itch so strongly, before placing Spock's hand on his face. “Is this how it's done?”

“Yes. May I?”

“Wait.” One-handed, Stark unfastens his mask, sending a wave of yellow light across Spock's face, tingling at his psi points. More remarkable than the sensation (and the sensation is _remarkable_ ) is the restraint evident behind it. Stark holds greater power than Spock had imagined. “Okay.”

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts...”

Spock presses in and realizes that he is mind-melding with a being without mind. A being of pure katra. Inside, rather than billions of connections and synapses, Stark is that same light radiating from his face. It is quite unlike anything Spock has felt before—even better than the first time when he was infected with polywater. His mind tries to wrap itself around the light, hold it close, but it is as allusive as any other light. Spock desperately tries to grab purchase on the smaller flecks of light that make up the whole, but as Spock progresses deeper inside, the light grows ever more brilliant, overloading Spock's perception in a satisfying flash.

Spock blinks, his eyes burning like he just went outdoors after hours of intense study. The room grows dimmer as Stark fumbles his mask back into place. “I should go,” Stark mumbles. “It was...” Stark backs away from the table, his back hitting the locked door. “Sorry about the mess.” (Spock cannot be certain whether Stark is referring to the mess on the floor or in Spock's pants.)

By the time Stark manages to unlock the door and place himself on the other side of it, Spock's timesense has re-engaged.

One minute and twenty-four seconds have elapsed since he initiated the meld. The experience felt longer in his mind.

–

Were Spock fully-Human, he imagines he would be embarrassed by his performance (or lack thereof) in the meld with Stark. As he is, Spock merely regrets his inability to practice the old Earth axiom, “Do unto others...” Spock is a strong believer in fairness and equanimity whensoever possible, and thus, according to his personal ethics, it would only be logical to approach Stark with an offer of bringing him the same stimuli as Spock experienced in their previous encounter.

The possibility of Spock experiencing that stimulus once more is a mere secondary benefit.

Unfortunately, Spock hasn't much opportunity to approach Stark about engaging in another aventure—with the demands of duty and Stark's skillfulness at fooling the ship's censors. (The Enterprise, apparently, was not built for detecting creatures existing on multiples planes of reality at once.) At his earliest convenience, Spock goes to the one place where Stark is guaranteed to be no matter what the censors say—once again to Stark's sermon.

Stark seems to have moved on from facile attempts at pan-universal, non-denominationalism to taking refuge in the absurd. Namely, holding a funeral for a god.

When Spock enters the chapel, Stark is addressing his usual congregation from the pulpit. "And while we may not have known Him for very long, and while He might have tried to kill us, it is still important that we ask ourselves, 'Who mourns for Apollo?' Should we mourn for Apollo? What are the limits of our grief and compassion?" Stark pauses for a moment, looking out at the congregation expectantly. "Anyone? Does anyone want to...?"

"I thought that was a rhetorical question," Yeoman Rand whispers to Uhura.

"Anyone?"

Spock raises his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Spock."

"While practitioners of the Vulcan faith do not indulge in emotionalism, there is a phrase common to the Vulcan people. When we hear of a death, we say, 'I grieve with thee.' Grief is permitted. Given that Vulcan beliefs discourage a hierarchization of lifeforms, I would venture that all life is grievable under Vulcan spirituality, even if that life was what some might term a 'god' and abused their 'divine' powers reprehensibly. To summarize, yes, we should mourn for Apollo."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock." Stark smiles, his eye darting around the chapel. "Anyone else? Anyone? Anyone? Yes, Mr. Spock.”

"What do you believe?"

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Er... Well, as Stykera, I mourn for all. Even the gods."

"You think Apollo really was a god?" Uhura asks.

"If people worshipped Him as a god, then He was one."

"That's it?" Rand asks. "That's all it takes?"

"According to Banik beliefs, yes... And, in my experience, the beliefs people hold about the afterlife, no matter how different, tend to be true when their time comes."

"But what about yer Goddess?" Scotty asks. "If everything's true and there's some pantheon o' gods waitin' for us, why do you talk about that Goddess of yours so often?"

"The Goddess is _my_ belief. We may not be entitled to much, but even Baniks are allowed to have their own spirituality."

"But if your Goddess is just as true as Apollo or God or whoever," Lieutenant Masters says, "how can you put so much faith in her alone?"

"As Mr. Scott said, everything is true. And if everything's true, we can pick which truths to hold as our own. That doesn't make anyone else's truths any less valid. Faith isn't mathematics; there can be as many right answers as we need."

By the time Stark looks to the chronometer to start the binge-drinking portion of his service, they are already to the end of their allotted time. For what Spock guesses to be the first time, Stark manages to fill his weekly service with actual religious and spiritual content. And, for the most part, his congregants seem pleased with the change, vacating the room only after the next group scheduled to use it filters in.

"Father," Scotty says, stopping by Stark on his way out the chapel, "er, will we be doing this again next week? I mean, the religious talk the whole time?"

"Yes." Stark nods happily. "I think we will."

Scotty grimaces. "Don't wait up for me then.”

Stark opens his mouth as if to speak, but Scotty is gone. Stark frowns.

“I believe,” Spock says, joining Stark in the doorway, “Commander Scott is disappointed by the lack of ethanol in today's sermon.”

“That's my belief, as well.” Stark glances at the new faces in the room before leaning in to whisper, “I know of many mystics who use intoxicants to reach a higher state of consciousness... I don't think this is what Mr. Scott is attempting.”

“I can say with near certainty that that is not Mr. Scott's intention.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Starfleet has been advised of the matter. They will take the appropriate action when they see fit.”

Stark nods.

"Could I discuss something with you? In a more private location."

"Yes, of—" Stark's communicator whistles in his pocket. "Excuse me." He brings the comm to his mouth. "Stark here."

"My quarters. Five minutes," says a voice over the communicator Spock judges to be Lieutenant Scorpius.

"I'll be there. Stark out." Stark jams the communicator back in his pocket before smiling at Spock apologetically. "I have to go."

"Perhaps we could have that discussion over dinner."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

–

Stark is considerably more agitated physically this dinner. When he drops his fork for the third time, Spock has to ask, "Stark, is something wrong?"

"No. It's fine. Everything's fine."

"You are having difficulty regulating your motor functions."

"Oh." Stark sets down his fork and folds his hands in his lap.

"Are you nervous?"

"No. I'm... I'm a bit confused."

"Confused?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"This. I... You got what you wanted. Once is usually enough. And with the way you acted when we were... I don't think you cared to see me again."

"I see." Spock clears his throat. "I _regret_ the manner in which our last encounter ended. Typically, my mind melds have been of greater mutual benefit. What transpired while we were melding has not happened to me before."

"It probably happens to a lot of Vulcans."

"Even so, it was not entirely equitable." Spock folds his hands, resting them on the table. "I hypothesize if we were to repeat the encounter, it would end in a more mutually beneficial manner."

"You want to...?"

"If you so desire it."

Stark looks down at his glass. "Most people don't care what I desire."

“In this instance, it is of utmost importance.”

Stark looks up at him, smiling shyly. “Okay.”

Five minutes and seventeen seconds later, Spock is sitting at the edge of his bed, glowering at the floor, while Stark straps his mask back on.

“So...” Stark drawls. “Perhaps in a couple minutes, we could try again?”

“I require at the very minimum five minutes to recenter my katra.”

“I can wait.”

Spock pulls his legs off the ground, sliding to the middle of the bed, where he faces Stark. “Perhaps our next meld would be more successful if I knew more about your psionic anatomy. In particular, what areas are the most sensitive.”

“Oh.” A slight blush forms on Stark's cheek. “Well, the true core of my being is probably the most sensitive.”

“And where would that be located?”

“In the deepest recesses of my soul. It is the source of the light.”

“I believe I have seen that. In our past unions, I attempted to approach a very bright light before... becoming overloaded.”

“Yes, that would be the core of my being.”

“Good. Surrounding that area, there were smaller flecks of light. Do those hold any particular purpose?”

“Not for this. The souls of those I aided in death are not very, er, sensuous.”

“The flecks are the souls of others.”

Stark nods.

“I see.” Spock thinks back to exactly how many flecks of light he saw in the meld. Far too many for even him to count. “How many souls would you estimate you have acquired?”

“I don't know.” Stark thinks for a moment. “At least a thousand.”

“One thousand?”

“I would've aided more if I hadn't been rescued from Katratzi. Living aboard the Enterprise has helped me catch up, I suppose... Do you ever notice that the dying wear red?”

Spock finds himself too distracted to consider Stark's inane question. _One thousand?_ No Vulcan—not even the great priestesses at Gol, who are permitted such things by the very purity of their minds—has ever joined with so many minds. Such a thing would be unclean—a matter of public health. There is a maxim taught to Vulcans reaching psionic maturity: “For however many katra thy beloved has known, shall be known to thyself.” In lay terms, when a Vulcan mind melds with someone, they are melding with everyone that person has melded with.

One thousand.

One _thousand_.

Stark leans over, pressing a hand on Spock's knee. “Are you okay?”

Spock blinks once. “I am adequate.”

“Do you still want to...?”

The damage is done; Spock has already soiled himself with Stark's liberality. No harm could befall him from giving Stark the same pleasure he (and a thousand others) have taken from Stark. “Yes. My energies are sufficiently refocused.”

“Good.” Stark unstraps his masks and, as the light pours onto him, Spock raises his hand to Stark's cheek.

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts...”

The light is just as brilliant, but Spock's perception of it is somewhat dulled by their recent encounter. The sensation remains enjoyable. Spock may yet be able to appreciate it more now that he is not overloaded by stimuli. With a target in mind, Spock proceeds further into the glow, seeking out the source of the light. The journey is longer than Spock anticipates, and even with the prickling sensations across Spock's mind, he finds himself losing his telepathic focus until he slips out of Stark's mind entirely.

Back on the physical plane, Stark's mask dangles from his face halfway off, his eye locked with Spock's, wide in confusion. “What just...”

Spock jolts away, scooting himself off the bed, to his feet, and into the corner of the room, where he glares at Stark with his fingers steepled. “I appear to be having continued difficulties with my telepathy.”

“Oh. Maybe you're just nervous.”

“I am _not_ nervous.”

“Or maybe my mind overpowered yours.”

“Or _maybe_ I could not find your core because they were too many souls in the way.”

Stark wrinkles his forehead. “What are you saying?”

“I am suggesting that perhaps your telepathic promiscuity has irrevocably altered your psionic anatomy to the point of insensitivity.”

Stark scowls, pushing himself off the bed. “Or perhaps I can't feel you because you're a half-breed from a barely telepathic species and I...” Stark crosses the room, pressing himself uncomfortably close to Spock. “I am a _frelling unicorn_.” He taps twice on his mask before storming out.

_Fascinating_ , Spock thinks despite himself.

–

Spock realizes now that attempting any kind of telepathic association with Stark was deeply illogical. The ephemeral pleasure was not worth the permanent damage to Spock's mind. Spock has yet to perceive any damage to his mind resulting from their three brief unions, but his Vulcan upbringing tells him the seeds of insanity (the loss of logic and the rise of emotion) have already been sown—so deep within him that they cannot be felt. Spock, in particular, has to maintain a state of constant vigilance regarding insanity given his heritage. Not only is he half-Human, but the genetic markers for emotionalism might lie dormant in the Vulcan portion of his ancestry—made evident only by Sybok's slip into pagan fanaticism.

Early detection being key, Spock visits Dr. M'Benga for a full neural scan.

“Is there any particular reason for today's visit?” Dr. M'Benga asks, stepping behind the neural imaging console. “Usually I can't get you in here on pain of death.”

“I am concerned that—”

“Keep your head still.”

“—my recent telepathic contact with alien species could negatively impact my health.”

M'Benga looks up over the console. “Have you been experiencing any symptoms? Headaches? Fatigue? Ringing in your ears?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He peers down at the neural scan. “Everything looks good from here.”

“Are you certain? I've been rather telepathically active as of late.”

“Have you been properly starting and ending your melds?”

Spock breaks eye-contact. “My endings have been more abrupt recently.”

M'Benga's eyes grow wide. “I mean, have you been severing the telepathic link completely to prevent Pa'nar Syndrome?”

“Yes.”

“Then you shouldn't have anything to worry about. As long as you practice safely, your brain will be unaffected.”

“But what of my katra?”

“I'm afraid that's outside my expertise. You could always talk to the chaplain about it.”

Spock doesn't plan on talking to or even seeing Chaplain Stark again, but when he leaves the neural imaging suite, he finds him staring right at the man he once found so elusive. As Stykera, Stark is hardly unexpected in sickbay, but Spock doesn't believe fluttering about someone who _just won't die_ —much to the annoyance of Spock—is part of a Stykera's duty.

Spock can see it all quite clearly through the exam room's transparent aluminum walls, but the conversation is slightly muffled.

“ _Stark_ ,” Scorpius hisses, pushing him away—far more gently than if he was actually annoyed. “I'm fine.”

Stark backs into a corner, stuffing his hands under his armpits.

“Well, I got good news for you,” Dr. McCoy says, staring down at a padd. “According to the stress test we ran, your cooling apparatus is running more efficiently. Meaning it took you significantly longer than last month to run through a single cooling rod under the same conditions. Now, seeing as you haven't made any structural modifications, your body itself is what's grown more efficient at keeping you cool. Have you made any lifestyle changes this month? Any changes in diet? Are you getting more exercise?”

“Yes, of a sort.” Scorpius leers at Stark, who seems to be in on the joke.

“Whatever it is you're doing, keep it up.”

“Oh, I plan on it.”

Were he fully Human, Spock would exit “in a huff,” but given his hybrid genetics, he leaves sickbay with a small, imperceptible exhalation. The prospect of Lieutenant Scorpius having intimate relations with Stark is admittedly distressing, pressing upon old wounds. Scorpius has quite literally taken everything from Spock. His home on Vulcan, all the possessions therein, and now the one source of pleasure in his life, Stark. Not to mention Admiral Pike's favor and the opportunity to give him a life worth living.

While emotionally unaffected by Pike's accident and subsequent convalescence, Spock nonetheless found he could not live with Pike's pitiful condition—nor could Pike, Spock imagined. Doing what he could, Spock devised a complex plan that would free Pike from his own mind. He need only wait until Spock was serving once again on the Enterprise. However, in the interim, Scorpius took it upon himself to engineer a wheelchair that granted Pike greater mobility and communication—although not as great as what he would have had on Talos IV. Pike remains to some extent trapped in his own mind (at least as much Spock is), but he has a life now.

A life that occasionally permits him to speak to his old science officer over subspace.

After discussing a recent coup in the Hynerian empire, Spock remarks upon something that caught his eye throughout their call. “That is a very authentic-looking lirpa on your wall. I used to own one just like it.”

“Thank you. It was a gift from Scorpius.” 

Were Spock Klingon, he would swear death to Scorpius and all his progeny. As he is, Spock merely allows a small twitch of his mouth—a gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by someone who has known him as long as Christopher has.

“Is something the matter?”

Vulcans do not lie. (And Spock _is_ Vulcan even if he can never profess to be one.) “I am experiencing what Humans might call 'inner turmoil.'”

“You? Inner turmoil? That's unheard of.” Spock takes half a second to appreciate the machine's ability to replicate Human sarcasm. Scorpius truly is a genius. ( _And Spock will destroy him._ )

“I believe I may have strayed from my chosen path. I have done things that run counter to everything I was taught to believe.”

Accustomed to Spock's caginess when speaking about personal matters, Pike asks, “And what you did, did it hurt anyone?”

Spock shakes his head. “Not the deed itself, but I may have allowed my own conflictedness about my actions to negatively influence my behavior towards those involved.”

“Then to me it sounds like your actions aren't the problem here. It's your conflictedness. Now, you can either change what you believe or change what you do, but you can't keep doing things you believe are wrong and not expect to act like complete jackass to the people around you. Even if you are half-Vulcan.”

That—being half-Vulcan—seems to be the crux of the problem once again. He was raised to follow the Vulcan way, knowing the path of logic—Vulcan logic, in particular—would lead him to all the good Vulcan has to offer—a career, a home, a place in society, a bondmate, the deepest telepathic connection one could have. Those goods are forbidden to him now. The Vulcan scientific community refuses to acknowledge his accomplishments and discoveries while in Starfleet. Scorpius owns his home. There has never been a place for him in society. And no Vulcan will ever bond to him or even spare him a passing mind touch. Yet, his need as a Vulcan (telepathic contact inserting itself somewhat awkwardly into Maslow's hierarchy of needs) remains.

The itch in his hand—perhaps more than sign of perversion. Yet, if it truly is a sign of perversion, Spock is quickly forgetting how to care.

Stark could be his only chance. (Spock feels incredibly old then, like a Human woman in one of his mother's holoserials well past her prime trying not to die alone.)

–

Spock is unable to find a seat at Stark's next sermon, so he waits outside until the congregation has dispersed. Inside, Stark is stacking standard-issue Bibles back in their cupboard.

“Chaplain.”

Stark doesn't face him. “Commander.”

“I apologize for the manner in which I treated you following our last encounter. I hope that my mistake does not preclude the possibility of being intimate again.”

Stark scoffs. “You can't call me a tralk and then expect to join with me whenever you wish.”

Spock is surprised. He did not anticipate Stark to stand up for himself (or do much else but fall into Spock's waiting embrace), because in the past Stark gave away his psionic-self freely and absorbed any benign attention from others like a dying houseplant. Spock isn't certain how he would administer to this less-malleable being.

“But,” Stark says, turning so that Spock can see the slightly upturned corner of his mouth, “there are other ways of being intimate.”

And this is how Spock finds himself kneeling on the deck of Stark's quarters, administering oral sex. Overall, a rather tedious exercise until Stark flips off his mask, shining his light down onto Spock's psi points, and then starts squeezing the hands Spock has left awkwardly resting on his thighs. Then it is close to whatever Sybok considers “seeing God.” In more technical terms, a feedback loop of psionic and physical pleasure running unendingly between Spock and Stark. Heaven on Earth and then back again.

Spock faintly hears a door slide open. “Stark, have you seen my game padd?” Of course, Lieutenant Scorpius would barge in. Obviously, he would. As a half-Scarran, he must possess a low-level telepathic field that alerts him whenever Spock's life is going in a positive direction. This is obviously revenge for beating him in chess recently.

“No,” Stark says, throwing a blanket over Spock and the lower half of his body.

“I thought I left it in here last night.” Last night? “What are you doing?”

Spock feels the light disappear as Stark closes his mask. “Praying?”

Scorpius snorts. “Of course. What else do you do? ...If you see my game padd, put it on the bathroom counter.”

“I will.”

Spock hears Scorpius stomp off and the double doors of the bathroom open and close. Stark lifts up the blanket. “Sorry.”

Spock removes his mouth from Stark's person. “Does he often enter your quarters unannounced?”

“Constantly. This is not the first time he has walked in on me having an intimate moment. This _is_ first time another person has been there though.” Spock finds himself oddly relieved by that addendum. Stark cups his cheek. “Are you jealous?”

“Would it please you if I were?” Spock knows some Humans find jealousy in a partner validating of their desirability.

“No. Jealousy is a sign of possessiveness.”

“And you do not wish to be a possession.”

Stark nods.

Spock had forgotten how easy it is to relate to another telepath.

“It is nice,” Stark says.

–

An outbreak of Arethian flu amongst the crew forestalls any opportunity for Spock and Stark to officially define the terms of their association. Given the limited probability of finding another telepath during the Enterprise's mission, Spock realizes the benefits of locking down Stark's services for the foreseeable future, yet he finds himself somewhat thankful for the heavy workload preventing him from doing so. Even after his exile from Vulcan, Spock has never been a man to settle for the convenient—and even with his new conditions for their dalliances, Stark is by his very nature convenient, ready and available for use. By almost anyone.

That fact doesn't escape Spock as he portions out vaccines in the lab. As the death toll rises, so does the number of souls residing within Stark. Thirteen since yesterday—one at a time rolling into Stark like an assembly line as he is encamped in sickbay. _Every living thing dies,_ Spock muses bitterly as he loads the vaccines into a cart, _so_ everyone _can take their turn with Stark._

Pushing the cart down the corridor to sickbay, Spock is doubtful that he could countenance the sight of Stark's “sacred duty” without a facial muscle twitch that would give Dr. McCoy another excuse to assert that Spock is an emotional creature in denial. (As if Spock needs another person telling him he isn't Vulcan.)

As the door swishes open, Spock keeps his eyes on the cart and away from the makeshift triage in the middle of sickbay. Vulcan hearing isn't so easily circumvented.

“Get outta here, you metal-faced bastard!” McCoy growls. “He ain't dead yet.”

The slowing beeps of the biosensor speak differently.

“Doctor,” Stark says.

“Goddamnit...” He sighs. “Make it quick.”

McCoy brushes past as Spock feels rather than sees Stark remove his mask. Spock may be “a half-breed from a barely telepathic species,” but even he can perceive the shift in the psionic field as Stark gets to work. At this distance at least. From his lab Spock may have read the numbers, registered how many souls were passing through Stark, yet until now he remained wholly ignorant of what Stark does for each of those souls.

Ashamed like a child stepping on an insect, Spock leaves the vaccines and returns to his work.

–

After the outbreak has been contained and the death stopped, Spock seeks out Stark with the computer's help and is faced once again with an empty room.

“Stark?” Spock calls, his voice echoing slightly in the deserted mess hall.

A head pokes out from under a table. “Yes?”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “You are sitting underneath the table.”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Would you like to join me? There's room.”

Spock looks around the room, verifying that it is empty. “Very well.” He crouches down and crawls beside Stark, who has a partially eaten plate of crudites resting on his lap.

“Carrot?”

“No, thank you.”

Stark chomps happily on a piece of celery, leaving Spock to an awkward silence—unusual given that Stark is one to fill any and all silences.

“Is there a particular reason why you are eating _underneath_ the table?”

Stark swallows. “I have food aggression.”

“Food aggression? Like a domestic canine?”

Stark nods. “When I was growing up, we were never given much food. We were always fighting to get our portion.”

“And the behavior become engrained.”

“Yes... I used to bite. The elders made me eat away from everyone else. I suppose I got used to it.”

“You could eat in your quarters.”

Stark shakes his head. “I can't fit under the table in my quarters.”

Spock straightens his neck, his head brushing the bottom of the table. “You don't find this uncomfortable?”

Stark smiles slightly. “When Starfleet was liberating Katratzi, I hid in a crate for five solar days. This is roomy by comparison.”

“If you value 'roominess,' why do you eat under a table?”

Stark shrugs. “It's nice down here. Cozy. Very... womblike.” The word choice reminds Spock that Stark has no mother—and for all intents and purposes neither does he. They have more in common than perhaps Spock would prefer. “I felt you today.”

“Indeed?”

“While I was passing over Ensign Mailer. You seemed surprised.”

“It was not what I expected.”

“No?”

“I thought the dying were using you.”

“No, that would be the living.”

Spock lets the subtle barb pass. “You get as much from them as they from you. It is a mutually beneficial transaction.”

“I wouldn't choose to do it if it wasn't.”

“Selflessness doesn't have value amongst your people?”

Stark rolls his eye. “When someone's been forcing you to be selfless for the past five millennia, it tends to lose its value.”

“Even it means abrogating the needs of the many in favor of those of the few?”

“Yes! We even have an old saying, 'The many are your oppressors.'”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sort of. It's a very rough translation. Actually, it's probably something more like, 'Everyone is oppressing you.'”

“Am _I_ oppressing you?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not presently?”

“No, presently you're under the table.” Stark nudges him like this holds some greater significance and perhaps it does.

Spock picks up a carrot, considering it for a moment. “You are a very complex and dynamic individual.”

Stark nods like Spock just told him water was wet. “I contain multitudes.”

And while Stark might be one of the most open telepaths Spock has met... “You are a very inconvenient person.” Spock runs a hand over his upper back, which aches mildly from crouching. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My entire life.” That would include his time as a slave—something that remains unstated but still causes a curl of empathy? affection? to roil in Spock's abdomen dangerously close to his heart.

Spock takes a bite of his carrot, chewing slowly. “The Vulcan people have never been conquered.”

“Good for them,” Stark mumbles.

“I am beginning to realize how limited that makes them. And me. Suffice to say, Vulcans do not eat under tables.”

“But you are.”

“Only because you invited me. The idea would not have occurred to me otherwise.” Spock looks Stark directly in the eye. “I think perhaps we could be mutually beneficial to one another.”

“Are you sure you won't be 'settling?'” That is the problem with relating to a telepath—on occasion they can read one's mind. Especially if they are more skilled than one could ever aspire. The corners of Stark's mouth quirk at the sensed compliment.

“On the contrary. If Humans are but a little lower than the angels—” Spock's thumb traces the smile forming on Stark's lips. “—then any continued association with you would be a form of celestial upward mobility.”

Stark grabs a handful of Spock's shirt, yanking him closer with a surprising burst of strength. “Talk theology to me, Mr. Spock.”

–

In the coming months, during Spock's off-time, if he isn't sitting underneath a table, he's on his knees in front of Stark, and, with the exception of one notable occasion, he is not praying. (Stark occasionally lapses into prayer while Spock is in that position—something Spock found unnerving until Stark explained that the Banik orgasm is a transcendental experience wherein the corporeal body and spirit become fused by the grace of the Goddess. It seems then that Spock _is_ pleasuring Stark telepathically. Although the Goddess appears to be getting most of the credit.) Afterwards, Stark flops his back onto Spock's bed, letting his legs dangle off the edge so Spock can rest a cheek on his thigh.

“We should try this in your spa bath,” Stark says, sitting up.

Spock looks up at Stark with a questioning eyebrow.

“The light refracts differently in water.”

“Interesting. The captain _has_ informed me that the baths in senior officers' quarters are capable of holding two people.”

“That's one way of beating the loneliness.”

“You believe Captain Kirk is lonely?” He is never short on female company.

“I think most people are... but the captain in particular.”

“And Dr. McCoy?” Spock felt a whisper of that name in Stark's mind.

“Him, too.” Stark's voice grows cold. “But perhaps that is a fate he deserves.”

“I thought you liked Dr. McCoy. He speaks very highly of you.”

“He only does so because he doesn't know me.”

“I know you.” Spock brushes a kiss along Stark's inner thigh.

“Biblically... but if you _knew_ me, you'd find another telepath.”

“I imagine you would do much the same if you knew me.”

“That's what I'm talking about.” Stark reaches down, cupping the back of Spock's head. “I do know you. I know what you did. During the war. _And I don't care._ I'm _grateful_.” Spock turns his head, unable to look Stark in the eye. “I would've done it. If I could've done it, I would have.”

“You are Stykera.”

“But I am Banik first. And I have never met not one Banik who wouldn't praise your name to the Goddess for destroying the Scarran species.”

“To my people, I am a monster, but to yours, I am a hero.”

“ _Your_ people would say that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. But the only reason there are so few Baniks (and only one Scorpius) is that the many slaughtered us, ate our children, choked us with pesticides for their precious crystherium.” Stark's fingers curl around Spock's hair. “I wouldn't worry what the Vulcans think of you; they're not your people anymore.”

“Then who is?” It is a question Spock has asked many times, but never aloud.

Stark shrugs. “Whatever company you keep.”

He looks up at Stark. “Would that include you?”

“If you'll keep me.”

Spock untangles Stark's fingers from his hair. “You are not something to be kept.” He twines their fingers together. “But I am willing to share the future with you. For however long that may last.”

They start with shore leave.

“You do not mind staying aboard the Enterprise?” Spock asks, brushing his fingertips along the short hair on Stark's head—now resting on Spock's lap.

“I probably would have stayed here even if you hadn't asked me. I appreciate the quiet.” One of the benefits of engaging with another telepath is that Spock knows intuitively, from experience that Stark is referring to much more than the lack of audible noise. “It's nice having just one soul to consider.”

Spock smiles slightly down at Stark. “I would hope that by now you would be thinking of two souls.”

“No, I think I can trust you to take care of my own.”

Spock traces the edge of Stark's mask, feeling the energy humming beneath. Stark gives something between a moan and a sigh. “Is this pleasing?”

Stark nods. “I was thinking we could—” Spock lets a fingernail slips beneath the mask. “—mmhmm...”

“Yes?”

“...try something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Stark sits up, playfully batting away Spock's hands. “You have some sensation in the psionic pressure points on your face. When I remove my mask.”

“True.”

“But not as much as your hands.”

“Correct.”

“Perhaps we could try to heighten that sensation by getting closer.” Stark swings one knee over Spock's thighs, straddling his lap.

Spock rests his forehead against Stark's. “The proximity might _overload_ my psionic capabilities sooner than is desirable.”

“We'll have to see. It's worth trying.”

“Very well.” Spock wraps his arms around Stark's middle, pulling him chest-to-chest and cheek-to-cheek, the cool metal of the mask chilling his face.

“Okay.” Stark drapes his arms around Spock's neck, propping his elbows up on his shoulders. “Are you ready?”

Spock rolls his hips. “In body and mind.”

“I can feel that.” (Stark is not talking about telepathy.) He unfastens the neck strap, lifting the mask up and away from his head.

The light casts upon Spock's psi points like a sun bringing to life a flower—or, from Stark's memories, an artificial growth light setting to bloom a crystherium. Stark may be Stykera by birth, but his first training was as a gardner. He has a way of making things grow—even without trying. Spock can see that now. But he also knows that this talent became second-nature through beatings, Scarran heat rays, and the constant threat of being sold to a budong mining operation.

Spock leans into the light (behaving very much like a phototropic planet, if he is to continue with the horticultural metaphor in his internal monologue), rubbing his own foundations along Stark's. He can't perceive exactly what he is projecting to Stark (mind touches are never so transparent as shouting across a room), but he tries to convey himself as a child split between two worlds and ends up at a man belonging to neither.

“You have a home here,” Stark says, but the words come out of Spock's mouth.

“In you?” Stark's voice asks.

“On the Enterprise.”

A flash from the man alone to the gleaming metal of the Enterprise, cold but close, wrapping around like a mask. A home away from home for people who no longer have one. Or those who never did. The Banik refugee. The boy of two worlds and nowhere. Spock rests himself on that comparison, making it bloom between them, exploding softly in the full spectrum of light and shadow. It's not the brilliant beam of their earliest joinings, but being there _with_ Stark is so much better. (Spock realizes later that he might be the darkness during their union, and counts himself fortunate that he grew up far from Earth, able to appreciate the value of darkness. Even the crystherium mother plant will not grow in constant sunshine.) The light and the dark fade, coalescing into the dull midtones of the corporeal realm.

“Stark?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you—”

“I'm fine. Better than fine.” Stark pulls away to slip his mask back on. “How are you?”

“Above adequate.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“As it was—” On the bedside table, a communicator chirps. “—intended.”

“I think that's mine.” He climbs off Spock, wobbling slightly even with Spock's steadying hand on his shoulder. “It could be Scorpius.”

“Scorpius,” Spock says flatly.

“Yes. It could be an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency would Scorpius have that he would call you for? A crisis of faith?”

“That was almost a joke.” Stark manages to get his two feet on the ground without any major injuries. “He might need my help. If he's thrown Braca out again, there would be no one on planet to change his cooling rods.”

“And this duty would fall to you?”

“It's my job. It's the entire reason I'm stationed aboard the Enterprise. You didn't know? No one told you?”

“No, I was not informed.”

“I don't think Scorpius wanted many people to know.”

“I understand why Starfleet would have a vested interest in keeping this secret.”

“Hold on.” Stark grabs the comm. “Stark here.”

“Sun,” the lieutenant says over the communicator. “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry. I was, er, meditating.”

“Right. Braca and Scorpius are taking a break from their weeken-long frellfest to get a bite to eat. They want to know if we'll tag along.”

“Er...”

“Keep in mind that it will be extremely awkward if I'm there alone with them playing footsy underneath the table.”

“Er... I...” Stark looks to Spock as if asking permission.

“I will be here when you return,” Spock says.

“Yeah,” Stark says into the comm. “I'll be there.”

“Great. I've rented a runner for the week; I'll pick you up at space dock at 1800 hours. Sun out.”

Stark places his comm back on the table. “I'm sorry.”

Spock shrugs. “They are your friends; it is logical that you would wish to spend time with them.”

Before Stark leaves Spock's quarters for space dock, Spock says, “They don't know of our relationship.”

“No.”

“You are free to tell them.”

“I know, but... Baniks don't share what is sacred.”

–

The two months following the Enterprise's first shore leave are so densely packed with events that time has the subjective appearance of elapsing more quickly than possible in normal space. Spock has studied the history of Starfleet closely and he is most certain that no first officer has ever had to deal with an elicit pornographic recording of two of his officers, a secret Scarran wedding, a half-Scarran in a blood rage, a Peacekeeper with childhood trauma, a Stykera convinced that the color red is a harbinger of doom, and a Sebacean supremacist teaching self-defense. The stress of these events is so profound that Spock barely protests when Dr. McCoy drags him and the captain down to sickbay for long overdo physicals.

The actual exam passes as it normally does (with the exception of Spock muttering, “yes” and averting his eyes when asked if he is sexually active), but afterwards, a most peculiar thing happens. Not only is he invited to take part in a social drinking occasion, but he says yes. Spock does not enjoy drinking to the point of intoxication (even when imbibing Altair water, which has numerous health benefits that outweigh the temporary loss in cognitive and motor function accompanying intoxication), but Spock senses that Dr. McCoy is offering friendship as much as he is offering beverages.

Since beginning his relationship with Stark in earnest, Spock has found his need for social stimulation increase exponentially (he has a graph illustrating this on his console), yet much of the need remains unfulfilled. Spock has tried to explain his increased need for contact to Stark (using the aforementioned graph) and presented the solution of Stark using all or at least most of his social interaction on him. However, Stark rejected this plan as entirely unfeasible given his commitments to his friends, suggesting, “Why don't you make your own friends? And then I can be with my friends and you can be with your friends. My friends, your friends. My friends, your friends.”

A suggestion easier stated than accomplished, it would seem, until Dr. McCoy offers friendship with a side of chess and Altair water. All Spock has to do is drink.

A bottle of Altair water later, Spock realizes that perhaps he should not have taken that requirement so literally.

He can't recall exactly what they spoke of that night, but he imagines it was quite profound. Not profound enough to warrant the debilitating hangover he has for the next two days, but profound enough to plant the seeds of a friendship. A friendship that is partially based upon the shared hangover.

“This is deplorable,” Spock says, staring down at his oatmeal.

Kirk massages his forehead. “Why did we do this? We're hungover like a bunch of probies.”

“I'd like to think this'll all be worth it, but...” McCoy picks up his spoon, letting the congealed grits ooze off its edge. “...I'd also like to think this is real food.”

“You know, I'm beginning to think I'm not fit for duty.”

“Jim, don't even go there, because it ain't gonna work. You've been up on that bridge with Sheyang fever, a phaser burn, and no clothes on. You can man the conn with a hangover.”

Spock looks up, suddenly remembering something, “Who won the chess tournament?”

“Last I remember, you two were tied. And then Jim started teaching us how to juggle using pawns.”

“Wait,” Jim says, “I don't know how to juggle.”

“Yeah, we gathered that pretty quickly.”

Jim huffs, resting his cheek bones on the balls of his hands. “Do me a favor and don't tell anybody whatever other foolish nonsense I got up to last night. In fact, let's not tell anyone what happened last night.”

Spock and McCoy share a look over Kirk's head, before saying, “Agreed.”

–

Spock quickly learns that friendship on a starship means much more than having someone to take meals with. When Spock feels the Intrepid die, all four hundred souls crying out in astonishment, Kirk is at his side, calling for Dr. McCoy. Despite Spock's protests, Dr. McCoy mother hens him all the way to sickbay. It is comforting knowing that people care for his well-being beyond the demands of duty. As it is, McCoy cares so much that he barely leaves Spock alone long enough for Stark to check on him.

Stark, unlike Dr. McCoy, says nothing and merely presses their foreheads together.

“You have known that horror?” Spock asks.

“In the last days of the Imperium, the Scarrans slaughtered my people by the thousands to prevent an uprising. Each death knell reverberated in my mind like an empty house. No matter how far from them I was.”

“You were yo—”

McCoy bustles back into the exam room. “For god's sake, Stark, he's not dying yet. Give the man some peace.”

An hour later, Spock learns that friendship on the Enterprise also means sacrifice.

“Damnit, Jim,” McCoy protests, “He's a scientist, not a doctor. He's got no place manning that shuttlecraft.”

“I beg to differ,” Spock says. “I am just as knowledgeable of single cell biology as you, and my reflexes are superior to your own.”

“Reflexes don't count for beans if you don't know where to shoot!”

“Gentleman,” Kirk cuts in. “Enough. I'll be flying the shuttlecraft.”

“Like hell you are!”

“I must agree with Dr. McCoy,” Spock says. “You are needed aboard the Enterprise.”

“It's between me and the pointy-eared hobgoblin with a martyr complex,” McCoy says.

Kirk sighs. “Return to preparing the shuttlecraft. I'll have my answer within the half hour.”

Long before then, Stark corners Spock in the shuttlebay. “Let McCoy go.”

“That is no longer my decision.”

“It is a suicide mission! Let McCoy go.”

“And let him die?”

“Yes, if one of you has to die, let it be him.”

“Is you capacity for grief so limited that you would be completely unaffected by Dr. McCoy dying?”

“Yes! I'm fine with McCoy dying. I'm an expert on dying! But... I am not an expert on you dying.”

Spock sets down his hydrospanner. “I have long reconciled myself with your duties as Stykera. Now it is time for you to accept what I must do as part of my duties as first officer and friend to McCoy.”

Stark frets for a moment, pulling the hem of his shirt into numerous contorted shapes. “But—he—he made me watch _Gone with the Wind_.”

“I know.” Spock discreetly touches the pads of his index and middle fingers to Stark's.

“I'll be waiting for you. No matter how this ends.”

Approximately one hour and fifteen minutes later, Spock learns that friendly sacrifice can go both ways. “Captain, I recommend you—”

Spock is interrupted over by comms by Stark. “He's alive! I told you he was alive. I told you.”

Hearing that voice and the voice of his captain, it is very tempting for Spock to agree to be rescued from inside the creature, to perhaps see another day with those two people. Yet, for those same two people and for all others aboard the Enterprise, he cannot allow himself to be rescued. “Do not risk the ship further on my behalf.”

“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy snaps over the communicator. “We're rescuing you.”

Spock feels the tractor beam lock onto the shuttlecraft with a jolt. “Why, thank you, Captain McCoy.”

–

“When I suggested you make friends,” Stark says, still pouting, “I didn't think you'd get yourself killed for them.”

Spock unscrews the lid to the nail polish. “I'm still alive. Give me your hand.”

“For now you're alive.” Used to the routine, Stark lays his right hand flat on the desk. “Barely.”

“I have fully recovered from the bullet wound.” Spock dips the brush, wiping the excess on the sides of the bottle, before painting a stripe along Stark's thumbnail. “I'm cleared for active duty beginning tomorrow.”

“Kirk will be happy to have his living shield back.”

“The captain has saved my life as many times as I have saved his.”

“Good for him.”

Spock starts on the index fingernail. “Can you honestly say you would not endanger your life to save Scorpius' or Aeryn's or Braca's?”

“Yes! But I'm different. I'm _Banik_.”

“And that makes your life worth less?”

“Have you not been paying attention for the past five thousand cycles?” Despite his agitation, Stark's hand remains still enough for Spock to apply a coat to the next fingernail. “You're going to die before me. Even if you live to be an old man, I will watch you die the same as everyone else.”

After finishing up the pinky, Spock brings his mouth to Stark's fingertips, blowing cool air on the drying nail polish—an intensely intimate gesture amongst Vulcans, but even without the proper nerve endings, Stark manages to understand the significance. “My mother was always saddened that my father would see her die long before he did. She knew that even if he did not show it, his grief would be incalculable.” 

“And your father?”

“He never spoke of it to me, but perhaps you could persuade him.” Spock takes Stark's left hand, placing it on the desk. “They will be staying aboard the Enterprise before the conference at Babel next month.”

“You want me to meet your parents?”

Spock nods. “I may not speak to them again for another seventeen years. I would like them to know I will not die alone.”

“No one has asked me to meet their parents before.”

“To be fair, most people you associate with do not have parents.”

“True. If I had parents, I would—” Stark jerks his hand away, sending a splatter of peach polish down the desk.

“What—”

Stark gasps as if choked by an invisible force (which he very well could be; stranger things have happened aboard the Enterprise). “Scotty.” He grabs Spock's wrist bruisingly tight, the wet polish on his nails sticking to Spock's arm hair. “Scotty's dying.”


	7. John and Scotty: What's Past is Epilogue

_“The best diplomat I know is a fully activated phaser bank!"_  
―Montgomery Scott, "A Taste of Armageddon"

–

“Canaveral, this is Farscape 1. I am free and flying. Are you with me there, Momma Bear?”

“Oh yeah, Farscape, I'm reading you loud and clear.”

“Authorizing flight computer to initiate ignition sequencing―now.”

“Roger, Farscape, you are go for insertion procedure... Farscape 1, hold a moment―”

“Hold? Canaveral, what?”

“Meteorology is picking up―”

“Jesus! Canaveral, do you see that? It looks like―Canaveral? Momma Bear? D―”

–

John Crichton is fairly certain he's died and gone to the 1960s.

“Capt'n, I've retrieved the vessel's pilot. He doesn't appear to be injured,” the man standing behind a desk―a console, maybe?―says.

“Thank you, Scotty,” a voice says over intercom. “I'll be there in a minute.”

The man behind the desk―Scotty, John supposes―walks towards the platform where John stands. “Are you alright, laddie? Your ship blasted right into ours. Awful luck, you got.”

“I'm fine.” John stumbles down the platform. “Are you... Are you an alien?”

“An alien? No. What kind of an alien speaks with a Scottish accent?”

“I don't know. What kind of an alien speaks with an American accent?”

“Mr. Spock, for one, but, you know, I think his mother might be a Canadian.”

“Spock? The pedia―” A wall to John's right swishes open, giving him a jump.

A man maybe a few years older than John enters, flanked by an older guy in a blue shirt. “I'll take it from here, Scotty.”

“Aye, sir.” Scotty nods at John. “Nice meetin' ye.”

“Yeah, nice meeting...” He trails off, watching Scotty leave through the wall. “Am I...?” John scratches the back of his head. “Am I dead?”

The two men share an amused smile. “No, you're very much alive,” the man in the blue shirt says. “And that's my professional opinion as a doctor.”

“Dr. McCoy,” the man in yellow says, “run a tricorder over our newest passenger just to make sure.” He winks at John.

Dr. McCoy pulls out a small electronic device the size of John's cell phone and runs it over John's body like a wand at airport security. “Fit as a fiddle. Heart rates a bit elevated, but that's to be expected. I'd say all things considered, you're in perfect health, Mr....?”

“Crichton. Commander Crichton. IASA. Do either of you mind tellin' me what the hell just happened?”

“Commander,” the yellow-shirted man says, “to put it plainly, your little ship hit our big ship. Before your ship was destroyed, one of our crew members managed to... what's the word?... teleport you to safety.”

“Teleport me? What, did he wave his magic wand? You got Merlin on board?”

“No, it's a scien _tific_ process using a device we call the trans _porter_. Are you familiar Einstein's theory of relativity?”

“No, I'm just a summer intern they let fly the module.”

The man pauses for a minute like he isn't certain whether or not John is being sarcastic. “The transporter relies on that principle, converting matter into energy and then reconstituting it into matter in a different location.”

“That's impossible. Why would someone even invent that? Can't your spaceship land? What kinda aliens are you?”

“We're not aliens, Commander Crichton. We're just as Human as you are.”

“Then what's with the...” He waves his arms about. “...this. Where I come from, Humans don't have transporters or spaceships.”

“We're not from where you come from. We're _from_ the _fu_ ture.”

“The mid-23rd century, to be more precise,” the doctor adds.

“Oh, well, if you're from 'the mid-23rd century,' then where's your aliens?” John asks.

“Our aliens?” The yellow shirt shakes his head. “What is with you and the aliens? Why do you keep coming back to that?”

“Because I need to know if I'm dead or not and aliens don't go to heaven.”

“Son.” The doctor places a hand on John's shoulder. “You might not want to say that too loudly round these parts.”

The other guy takes a device from his belt and flips it open like a mobile phone. “Kirk to bridge. I want all available non-Human personnel sent to the transporter room immediately.”

–

“This is Lieutenant Sun and Lieutenant Braca, two of our Sebacean crew members,” Kirk says.

“Come on! You're not even trying. Did your special effects budgets get slashed or―” The door swishes open.

“Lieutenant Scorpius reporting, sir.”

“―something... You're...” John staggers over to Scorpius, his arm reaching out to touch. “You're an alien. You're really an alien.” Close enough now, John pokes at the small amount of exposed skin on Scorpius' face. It's fiery hot, but the alien shudders at the touch. “God, you're...” John peers at the leather hood covering the alien's head. “What do you have under there?”

Scorpius leans in close. “Stay awhile and you might find out.” He strides away. 

John looks to the doctor, whispering. “Did I just get hit on by an alien?”

The doctor nods. “You betcha.”

“Huh. I don't know if I should feel flattered or...”

“I'd go with flattered. It's easier that way.”

“Now,” Kirk says, “as you can see, commander, our ship is home to a variety of sentient life.”

“Hate to break it to ya, kid,” the doctor says, slapping John on the shoulder, “but you're alive.”

John shakes his head. “This is unreal. I can't... What are you even doing here? You're not gonna go all _War of the Worlds_ on us?”

The captain smiles. “No, nothing of the sort. We're here on a historical research mission.”

“We were planning on doing a little sight-seeing,” McCoy says, “but I guess that's―” He's interrupted by an electronic chirping noise coming from his belt―one of those communication devices Kirk used earlier. “Sorry.” He picks up the device. “McCoy here.”

“Code blue,” a voice from the device says. “You're needed in sickbay immediately.”

“On my way. McCoy out.” McCoy holsters his communicator. “Emergency in sickbay.” He nods once at John before rushing out of the room.

Before he's out the door, Kirk's communicator sounds. “Kirk here.”

“Spock,” says the device. “Commander Scott is in sickbay with a critical spinal cord injury. He may not survive the hour. I thought you would want to know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock. I'll... Kirk out.” Kirk's jaw clenches as he walks out, seemingly operating on auto-pilot.

The three little aliens share one look before following him out, leaving John alone.

“Hey! I'm... Is anyone gonna...” he calls out to the closing door. And now he's stranded on a spaceship with not a friendly face in sight and no way to get home. Perfect. “I gotta...” He approaches the wall and pokes at it with a trembling finger. At his touch, the walls opens, sending John back with a jump, which is rather humiliating considering this is the kind of technology John interacts with every time he walks into a grocery store. “Get a grip, caveman.” With a deep breath, he steps through the door, out into a grey corridor. Looking left and right, John spots that Scorpius guy and the other two aliens, and quickly sprints after them.

–

Scotty can't feel his legs. No, no, Scotty can't feel his _anything_. He blinks his eyes open, not surprised to see himself in sickbay. “What...” he croaks. “What happened?”

Dr. McCoy is at his side. “You had a fall.”

“A fall? Musta been quite a fall. I cannae feel half my body.”

“You've injured your spine.”

“I guessed that much. Is this... You can fix this, right?”

“Scotty, what's the last thing you remember?”

“Going into cargo bay four. I needed to check on the...” No.

“You fell into a shipment container of pillerium.”

“Did it...?”

McCoy nods. “The radiation infected your spinal fluid on impact.”

“How... How long do I have?”

“We have drugs that can slow the spread of the radiation, but even using those... A day at the most.”

Scotty closes his eyes. “I think I'd like to be alone now.”

“Sure. I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”

Scotty manages to wait until he's heard the doctor leave to let the first tear slide down. This is what he wanted, isn't it? Then why is he so sad? Because he knows what awaits him on the other side? He's not a religious man by any means, but he can believe in Hell, if only for himself.

Beyond the curtains surrounding his medbed, a herd of elephants rampages into sickbay. That's what it sounds like at least―a herd of wild elephants stampeding and trumpeting at one another.

“―never would have happened in the Peacekeepers,” Lieutenant Sun mutters.

“―a soldier lives and dies at the word of their commanding officer,” Braca says.

“This is Starfleet,” the captain says.

“―you knew!”

“You knew and you didn't do anything!” the Starchild hisses.

“We all knew and none of us did anything,” Sun says.

“What was _I_ supposed to do, Aeryn?”

“You could have done something.”

“You could have spoken to Admiral Pike,” Spock adds.

“And told him what?” Scorpius asks. “I'm not a doctor, I can't make those kind of recommendations.”

“Hold on a second,” McCoy says. “I tried. I've spent the better part of the past two years trying to get him treatment, but it's a little hard when no one will acknowledge what the hell is going on.”

“I gave him sacramental wine,” Stark states flatly.

“Are we even certain his drinking is what caused this?” Kirk asks.

“Jim, he was loaded,” McCoy responds. “I had to filter out a bottle of Scotch from his circulatory system before I could even think about fixing that spinal fracture.”

Scotty stares up at the ceiling, wishing he could cover his ears with his pillow. Pity his arms weren't working. “Won't be long now,” he mutters.

Under the cover of a now incoherent jumble of voices, a figure ducks into Scotty's room. He braces himself for more bad news, but it's just the lad he brought on board earlier―the astronaut.

“Uh, hi.” The astronaut waves. “Scotty, right?”

“Aye.”

“John. Crichton. John Crichton.” He reaches out to shake Scotty's hand before quickly sticking his hands under his armpits. “You're the one they're fighting about?”

“Aye, but I wish they wouldn't. It's bad enough I'm dyin', I'd hate to have them tearin' each other apart on my account.”

Crichton shrugs. “That's what families do. Someone gets hurt; they spend the next two years blaming each other for it. They fight because they care. About you. About each other.”

“Ye think so?”

“Yeah.” He takes a seat next to Scotty's bed. “My mom.... she died four years ago. Cancer.”

“Cancer? No one's died of cancer in two hundred years.”

Crichton points to himself. “Caveman, remember? Twentieth century boy here.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay. It's good to know that nobody will have to go through what she went through... What we went through... It's been four years and my sister Susan still won't talk to any of us. Not me, not my dad, not my sister Olivia. I haven't seen my nephew Bobby since he was five.”

“Why not?”

“We... We said a lot of awful things to each other when my mom was sick. We blamed each other for what was happening.” Crichton smiles ruefully. “My mom―she was always the peacemaker. With her gone, we never managed to patch things up. Not with Susan. She's stubborn, like my dad.”

Scotty snorts. “I'm no peacemaker, but plenty of them folks arguing out there are stubborn.”

“Believe me, I can tell. They were fighting all the way up here. I don't think any of them remember I'm on board.”

“What happened with your sister...”

“Yeah.”

“I don't want that to happen here. When I'm gone.”

“I don't think that's up to you.”

“Then who?”

“I don't kn―”

Just then, a single voice breaks the noise outside, silencing the argument. “Bicker, bicker, bicker! 'My fault, your fault. My fault, your fault!' _Do not soil the sanctity of death with your petty, worldly disagreements!_ Go from this place, be peaceful of heart, and meddle not with the dying while I am on board. Go. Go!”

Crichton cracks a smiles. “Apparently, it's up to that guy.”

“Stark? He couldn't tell his arse from a hole in the ground. Or a hole in his face as the matter stands.”

Crichton peeks out the curtain. “He is literally chasing them out of the room. Wow.” He settles back in his chair. “Who is that guy?”

“Honestly, I haven't the slightest.”

Stark pokes his head inside the curtained-off room. “I'm sorry about the noise.”

“'s alright.”

He glares, one eye bulging, at Crichton. “Who's he?”

“Oh,” Crichton says, “I'm just your standard well-wisher from the twentieth century.”

“Oh. I like your jumpsuit. It's very orange.”

“Thanks. I, uh, like your face. It's very... shiny.”

“Thank you.” Stark pats his mask before looking back down at Scotty. “Call me if you need anything. I will be just outside.”

“Thank you kindly,” Scotty says and Stark disappears.

Crichton leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “You want me to get lost, too?”

“No, I―I'd prefer you to stay, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind. You're kinda the only person I know here.” Crichton shakes his head. “You know, I probably talked to _you_ more about my mom in five minutes that I have to my best friend in four years.”

“Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend.”

“Yeah? You got any deathbed confessions you wanna make?” Crichton asks playfully.

“Oh, just the usual. My name's Scotty. I'm an alcoholic. It's been about... two hours since my last drink.”

“They haven't managed to cure alcoholism by the year two-thousand-and-whatever?”

“They've got injections, pill you can take. But there's some things that can only be drowned out by a nice bottle of Scotch.”

“Like what? If you don't mind me asking.”

Scotty stares at the ceiling. “There was a war. Between the Federation and the Scarrans―and we...”

“You lost?”

“No, no. We won. The Federation called it an 'absolute victory'... but I think the Vulcans had a better word for it.”

“What was that?”

“Genocide.” Scotty swallows. “The Scarran wouldnae surrender, no matter what our terms. And we knew if they had the technology, they would come for us, so we...”

“You wiped 'em out? Nuked 'em?”

“Aye. All of 'em. Except for Mr. Scorpius. He doesn't have the―what d'ya call it?―the heat producing gland. The gland―it amplifies the charge of the anti-matter from phasers, our sidearms. Even on the lowest setting, one shot from a phaser would make a Scarran disappear. Just like that.”

“So, you made a bomb?”

“Yes. _I_ made a bomb.” He looks at John, the tears pooling in his eyes blurring his vision. “It was just a theory. I dinna know Starfleet would actually... But they did. They built it without me knowin', they had Mr. Spock detonate it, and the first I hear of it is five minutes before the President's pinnin' a medal to my chest for... for ending the war.”

“That's why you drink.”

“That's why I drink sometimes. Other times, I dinnae know why.”

Crichton looks down at his hands. “I have friends who work for NASA―the United States' space program.”

“I know that. I may be an old drunk, but I know what NASA is.”

“Yeah, well, my friends at NASA, whatever they theorize or design becomes property of the US government. Not like with IASA where the information is shared with the UN. Anyway, some of the stuff they came up with, stupid stuff, stuff like how to dispose of lavatory waste more efficiently has been used to build bombs, sniper drones used by the military. It's killed people. But that's the risk we take as scientists whether we work with the military or not. There's always gonna be someone out there who wants to take what's in our heads and use it to kill people. And we have to live with that.”

“You don't... You don't think I'm a monster?”

“No. I don't.”

“Well, that makes one of us.”

–

Scotty dozes off about five minutes after his big confession―whether the sudden sleepiness is from his injuries or the Scotch he downed before shift, John has no idea. It's a little weird sitting at the bedside of a dying stranger as he mumbles in his sleep about “scary dinosaur men,” but no weirder than being abducted by aliens and a bunch of humans from the future. John can't even deal with that right now. He wants to go home, forget about the future, but the immediate present of a dying man needing company outweighs all that. His species may have lost their humanity three hundred years in the future, but John still holds tight to his.

John's a little surprised to see the first person to visit Scotty is an alien―the girl alien with the pretty hair. She could be a cylon for all he knows.

“Is he...?” she asks.

“No, he's just sleeping.”

“Tell him... Tell him Aeryn stopped by.” She turns to leave.

“Aeryn? That's a human name.”

“No,” she sighs, turning around. “That's a Sebacean name that sounds similar to a Human name.”

“You've been telling people that your whole life, haven't you?”

“At least once a week since I left the Peacekeepers.”

“Peacekeepers?”

“The Sebacean military. I was being trained as a Peacekeeper before the Scarran war.”

“So, it's only been a few years for you since the war ended?”

“Actually, it's been seventeen years.”

“Wow.” He peers at her face. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Then how were being trained to―”

“Peacekeepers are born and bred for duty.”

“You were a child soldier?”

“That's what people say, but most Peacekeepers don't see combat until they reach the age of majority. And since the treaty was signed with the Federation, the Peacekeepers don't start training until adulthood.”

“Well, that's one good thing that came out of the war.”

“That depends on who you ask.” Her gaze drags down his uniform. “Are you military?”

“No. No, I'm a scientist. With IASA. That's the International Aeronautics Space Administration.”

“Rank?”

“Commander.”

“How long have you been employed there?”

“Going on about five years now.”

“So you were still employed at IASA during the Eugenics Wars?”

“Yeah.”

“How could you justify your science experiments when your planet was being torn apart by war?”

“I...” John hesitates, sighing. “We believed that by working together, by trying to be better―not through selective breeding or genocide―but by cooperating as people across vast differences to reach beyond our world that we would end the war. That we would end all wars. But...” He looks up at Aeryn. “That's not what happened.”

“No. Your planet won't have world peace for another century.”

“And after that we move our wars into outer space. Great.”

“Sometimes war is necessary.”

“If this―” He gestures to Scotty. “―is what war does to a man, then I don't think it's ever necessary.”

Aeryn smirks, shaking her head. “You really know nothing of the universe, do you?”

“Not of this universe, no.” John stands. “And I don't think I want to.”

“Don't let the door hit you on the way out,” she says as he struggles to find an opening in the curtains. “Do you need help?”

“I'm fine.” But he ends up ducking under the bottom of the curtains, running right into two of the aliens, who seem to be doing some weird alien handshake with their index and middle fingers. “Hey, Stark?”

“Yes,” Metal Face says, yanking his hand away from Pointy Ears.

“Who do I talk to about getting home?”

Stark looks up at the other alien, who introduces himself, “First officer Spock. I can address your concerns while the captain is on the bridge.”

“Great. I―”

“You will have to walk with me; I am due in the lab.”

“Sure, I can _West Wing_ it.”

Spock raises an eyebrow and takes off down the corridor at a pace John struggles to keep up with. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“I wanna know when I'm going home.”

“I believe, at this juncture, the more appropriate question is _if_ you are going home.”

“What?” Spock steps through one of their grocery-store-automatic-doors into a grey lab. When John follows him in, he sees Scorpius and the doctor working closely at one of the stations. “What do you mean 'if'?”

“I mean―” Spock runs his hands under some kind of sanitizer beam. “―the officer assigned to the task is still considering whether you should be allowed to return to Earth in the the year 1999.”

“And which officer would that be?”

“The first officer.”

“What do you have to consider? I don't belong here!”

“Undoubtedly.” Spock joins the others at their lab table. “But the knowledge you have accrued since boarding this vessel has no place on Earth in 1999.”

“So take it outta me! Can't you―I don't know―suck it out? Put a chip in my head?”

Scorpius looks up, seeming to consider the idea momentarily before shaking his head and returning to his work.

“Presently,” Spock says, “we do not possess the technology to 'suck out' memories.”

“So, invent it! I mean, what else are you working on?”

Dr. McCoy looks up at John, glaring incredulously. “Saving Scotty's life!”

“Oh.”

“Indeed,” Spock says. “Given the knowledge you now possess, and your inconsequential stature in Terran history, my provisional determination is to keep you aboard this vessel and return with you to the 23rd century.”

“Why?”

“Simply put, you know too much, and what you know could irrevocably alter our history and your future.”

“My future? No, _your_ future.”

“Semantics aside, the future must be protected.”

“What? No! The future is balls!”

“The future is... balls?”

“Yeah, from where I'm standing. You got genocide, people drinking themselves to death, interstellar war... Why would you want to protect that?”

“Because it is all we have.”

“But it doesn't have to be that way. You send me back to Earth and I can change things. Don't you...” John comes around the table, sidling up next to Scorpius. “Don't you want a better future, Scorpius? Scorpy? Can I call you Scorpy?”

“No.”

“Don't you of all people deserve a future where Scotty doesn't end up slaughtering your people? Don't you―oof!” John finds himself hoisted three feet in the air by his lapels.

“The Scarrans are not my people,” Scorpius growls―and truly growls like a dinosaur, albeit one with the Doctor's accent. “Braca is my people. My friends, the people on this ship are my people. _Scotty_ is my people. So, you'd better shut up and let us work or you will find out what happens when one of _my_ people dies.”

–

Scotty is expecting visitors, just not these visitors.

“Hello, Commander Scott.”

“Braca.”

“I've brought you my cat.” He holds out a fleshy creature that looks more like an albino lizard than a cat.

Scotty eyes it nervously. “What for?”

“I'm told intellectually inferior animals can be of great comfort to Humans during times of convalescence.”

“I'm alright, laddie. You dinna have to go through all this trouble.”

“It's no trouble.”

“I dinna really like―”

“Commander,” Braca says, his voice wavering, “I don't understand what is happening to me right now, but I think it has something to do with what is happening to you, and I think if you take the cat I will feel less the way I do.”

Scotty sighs. “Alright.”

“Thank you.” Braca sets the beast down on Scotty's collarbone. It looks up once at Braca for reassurance before curling into a ball up against Scotty's cheek. Actually feels kinda nice.

“He's warm.”

“Trait of the breed.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Harvey. After Cushing, the neurosurgeon.”

Scotty strains his eyes to look at the cat. “Harvey, you are lovely little pussy cat, aren't you?”

“He can't understand you.”

“He may not know what I'm sayin' but I bet he knows when someone's calling him a pretty kitty. Don't you, lad?”

“Yes, when that person is speaking in Sebacean. He doesn't have much talent for understanding vocal fluctuations in Standard.” Well, that's one thing he has in common with his owner. “I suppose we should have spoken to him in Standard more frequently during his formative months.”

“When he was a kitten?”

“Is that not what I said?”

–

John stares at the working group across the lab, willing them to find a cure―as much for his sake as Scotty's. He gets why he isn't exactly their number one priority right now―if DK or one of the other guys at IASA was dying right in front of him, John wouldn't be too worried about paperwork. (And that's what he amounts to here―another curiosity to be catalogued.) Even still, the novelty of being on a spaceship wore off right about the time he heard about the alien genocide enacted by his people, his species, and a program that grew right out of IASA. Right out of John's work and the work of his father. The Scarran genocide is a Crichton family legacy and one John would like to forget―even if it means giving up the wonders he's seen―the aliens, the transporter, this lab. He doesn't know what half the instruments in here do, but they look impressive. The technobabble, too, even if it's yelled and broken up every five words by what John guesses are alien curse words and racial slurs.

“Now, listen here, you hot-blooded bastard―”

“If you would abandon your Human superstition for one frelling minute, you―”

“Gentleman,” Spock admonishes.

“Can it, Spock,” McCoy snaps, “unless you plan on telling Mr. Wiz Kid here how absolutely _illogical_ it'd be to inject nanites into the spine of a man with cerebrospinal fluid radiation poisoning.”

“Nanites?” John says somewhat proudly. “That's little robots.”

“Very good, Commander,” Spock says. “Do you want a cookie?”

John is getting a little hungry, but he suspects that was some form of pointy-eared people sarcasm. “I'm good.”

Spock nods and returns to his workmates. “With the modifications Mr. Scorpius has made to his nanite prototype, the 'little robots' should neutralize the pillerium radiation.”

“See?” Scorpius grins smugly at McCoy.

“However,” Spock continues, “anti-radiation nanites remain untested on living subjects and are therefore an inadvisable treatment.”

“See?” McCoy mugs at Scorpius.

Scorpius smiles conciliatorily before straightening up and tapping twice on his temple. A light flashes and out comes―oh my god―a purple glowstick like six inches or so long―that has to go all the way through his brain―held in there by a little hollow metal canister with little bits of like brain hanging off of it and―

“Jesus Christ on a cracker...” John gasps―louder than he means to.

“Got a problem, Crichton?” McCoy asks.

“No! No... problem.”

“Good.”

Scorpius sneers at John before bending over, bringing the do-hickey coming out of his head to McCoy's eye level. “This past month, I have been experimenting with anti-radiation nanites in my neural cavity to diffuse the trace amounts of radiation from my cooling rods. So far, the nanites have been successful.”

Spock and McCoy lean in, examining the inside of Scorpius' head, completely undaunted by the strands of grey matter dripping out.

“The nanites are fully integrated,” McCoy says. “That's...”

“Fascinating,” Spock offers.

“I was gonna say genius, but that works. Probably inflate his ego less.”

“I am still here, Dr. McCoy,” Scorpius says.

“How have you been monitoring the radiation levels?” Spock asks.

“I am having difficulty getting the nanites' internal sensors to transmit to padds, so I have been taking readings of the surrounding tissue for radiation damage.”

“That's not conclusive evidence,” McCoy says, shaking his head. “Those readings would give you false negatives with the corvinica injections you take.”

“Yes, well...” Scorpius taps the brain tube, sending it spinning back into his head. He's careful not to look at McCoy.

“Don't tell me―”

“It was necessary to discontinue the injections to determine the nanites' effectiveness.”

“You―” McCoy jabs Scorpius in the chest. “You are impossible!”

“I must caution you, Mr. Scorpius,” Spock says, “if you continue to experiment on yourself, I will be forced to report your transgressions to Admiral Pike.”

“And if you don't start takin' your medicine like we agreed,” McCoy says, getting in Scorpius' face, “I'll tell Braca.” Scorpius snickers. “Or maybe I'll tell Aeryn.”

Scorpius glares at him. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Try me, kid.”

Scorpius huffs, breaking McCoy's gaze. “The nanites work.”

“In _your head_ , which if you haven't noticed, is more welcome to foreign objects―” He taps on Scorpius' temple. “―than the average spinal cord. We shoot these things into Scotty, his immune system will go berserk!”

“So we suppress his immune system.”

“We don't have the time!”

“Perhaps,” Spock says, “if we cannot work around Mr. Scott's immune system, then we can work with it.”

“What do ya mean?”

“We could implant the nanites into a microbe that attacks the spine. While Scotty's immune system attacks the microbes as it normally would, the nanites destroy the radiation.”

“That's the problem! In human spinal fluid, pillerium radiation is self-replicable. We'd need... we'd need a microbe that stays in the spine forever.”

“Huh,” Crichton say, thinking aloud. “Like chickenpox.”

“What did you say?”

“What you're talking about's like chickenpox. You catch it once as a kid and it stays in your body 'til you die. That's how my dad got shingles.”

“Varicella zoster virus would work,” Spock says, “as it remains dormant in the dorsal root ganglia, which are close enough to treat the affected spinal fluid.”

“One problem,” McCoy says. “We don't have VZV stored on board. Earth destroyed all it's lab samples a few decades after the disease was eradicated. Where the hell are we supposed to find any?”

Crichton raises his hand.

–

The captain's been sitting there at his bedside for five minutes quiet as a church mouse, which is odd because Kirk's usually the type to talk you to death―quite literally in the case of a few robots.

“Scotty.”

“Capt'n.”

“Scotty, I...” Kirk sighs and runs a hand through his hair―a habit he's picked up under the stress of command. If he keeps at it, he'll run out of hair soon. “I wanted to say... I've lost a lot good men on this mission―too many men―but none of them― _none of them_ ―will weigh on my conscience like losing you would.”

“Capt'n...”

“Scotty, hear me out.” He smiles. “That's an order.”

“Aye, sir.”

Kirk stares down at Scotty's blanket. “When I write letters of consolation after a crewman dies, I'm sure to tell the parents, the families that I did everything I could to preserve the life of their loved one. Not because I want to save face or spare Starfleet a wrongful death suit, but because I want them to know that their child, their sibling, their friend meant more to me as a member of my crew than they can ever imagine.” Kirk closes his eyes. “If you die from this, I can't put that in the letter to your family. Because I didn't do everything I could to save you, to help you.”

“Jim...”

“There was so much more I could have done, Scotty, but I didn't. _I failed you._ I was too afraid to confront what happened to me with any real insight that I couldn't even begin to consider what you went through. You know, you're a... you're a mirror, Scotty.”

“I've been called worse.”

“I'm serious. When I'd look at you, at your drinking, I'd see me, my cavorting around, never getting too close to anyone... So, I never looked too close.

“This isn't your fault, Scotty.” Kirk lays a hand on Scotty's forehead. “This isn't your fault at all. This _my_ fault for being too cowardly to confront my demons. This― _this_ was my Kobayashi Maru and I failed. I ran from the room.” Kirk swallows. “If you live, I promise you, I won't fail you again. We are going to be so much better than what we went through, what we had to do―the people who ordered us to do it. We're the future of Starfleet. We may not be young like those Sebacean punks, but we have an opportunity to do amazing things out here. And, _by god_ , I want you to be there.”

Even Scotty isn't immune to the captain's impassioned monologues, finding more than a few tears trickling down his cheek. “Capt'n... I wish I could.”

“I know, Scotty, I know.” 

He presses a kiss to Scotty's forehead, which turns those few tears into outright sobs, which, given the stasis medicine pressing down on Scotty's lungs, turn into a desperate search for air.

“Nurse,” Kirk calls.

Scotty's eyes are pinched close in distress, but all of a sudden he can see―he can feel―a light. And then something like a memory, coming in bits and pieces.

 _Sitting under the table, resting his head on Aeryn's leg, listening to them laugh, knowing he caused it and that they are not laughing_ at _him, seeing Braca's hand rest on Scorpius' knee and slowly stroke upwards, and closing his eye in modesty._

Scotty's lungs fill deep with air and the chaplain is hovering over him, strapping on his mask. “A gift, Mr. Scott. Friendship.”

Kirk stares up at Stark in awe. “I see your value now.”

Stark blinks. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

Scotty thinks he might die in peace until he hears the Starchild growling, “ _Get out of the frelling way._ ” He's soon barreling through the curtain, flanked by Spock and Dr. McCoy.

“Scotty,” McCoy says, “we're gonna save your life.”

“How?”

“We're gonna get you sick.”

–

“Wow, look at you,” John says, smiling in earnest.

“I feel awful.” Scotty sits hunched over at the edge of his bed, scratching his belly furiously.

“Watch it, you'll scar.”

“How in the heavens did children stand this? This is the kinda torture that would make a Klingon spill state secrets!”

“I don't know what a cling-on is, but I'm pretty sure you've got a way worse case of the chickenpox than anyone I know. Of course, none of their doctors sped up the virus with a bunch of science fiction mumbo jumbo.”

“I suppose none of them were put in quarantine neither.”

“No. Actually, before the vaccine came out, if one kid got chickenpox, their parents would try get 'em to give it to all their brothers and sisters. Kids were bound to get chickenpox at some point, people figured might as well get 'em all done at once.”

Scotty shakes his head. “You come from a barbaric time, Commander Crichton.”

“Yeah, but it's my time.”

“You still hoping to go back?”

He nods. “I'm hoping now that my one-in-a-million virus saved his chief engineer, Captain Kirk'll cut me a little slack. Let me go back home.”

Scotty smiles. “I'm sure the Capt'n'll―”

The ship lurches, sending John―who doesn't quite have his sealegs yet―crashing into the transparent wall of the quarantine chamber. “What was that? Did we get hit?” But Scotty doesn't look scared or alarmed. He looks _sad_. “Scotty?”

“Laddie, I dinna think you'll be going home.”

“What?”

“If I know my ship―and I know my ship―we've just gone back to our time.”

“Back to the future?” John would geek out at using those words in context―if his life wasn't falling apart.

“Aye.”

“No. I... No! My family, my job, _my life_ is on Earth! In 1999! I... I have no place here!”

With some effort, Scotty rises to his feet, shuffles over to John, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, laddie, you will. If I have anything to say about it, you will.”

–

_Some time later..._

“I don't think you understand how important this is, John,” Scorpius hisses in Crichton's ear.

“Then enlighten me, Scorpy.”

“This―this is my destiny. This is what my life has been leading up to.” He sighs. “She is a sentient cybernetic being and she is a woman. She is a women and she is a sentient cybernetic being.”

“I get it, she's a fembot. You want to boink her until her batteries run out.”

“She is not a robot. She's a bioloid. And a highly accomplished scientist. A prodigy in her field. And I want nothing more than for her to sit on my face.”

“How's Braca feel about this? Wait, let me guess, he wants nothing more than for her to on your face.”

“He was the one to introduce her to me.”

“Where's Braca know a Kalish bioloid from?”

“Er... He doesn't _know her_ in the strictest sense of the word.”

“Oh my god, have you even met her? Either of you? Wait, have you even talked to her―on subspace, email, whatever?”

Scorpius scowls down at his food tray.

“She doesn't know you exist, does she?”

“Of course she knows I exist! I'm the Starchild. I'm more famous than Jesus Christ!”

“Well, Jesus didn't have a sex tape.”

“That's why we haven't spoken to her. Do you know how difficult it is to find women when you have the fastest selling sex tape in the known galaxy? We have to wait for the right moment.”

“There's never gonna be a right moment. You just have to go for it.”

Scorpius nods towards Aeryn's table. “So why don't you?”

John sighs. “It's complicated. I'm from the past; she's from the future. I'm Human; she's Sebacean.”

“You like her; she barely acknowledges your existence.”

“Yeah, there's that.”

Scorpius drops the subject as they come closer to the table.

“―my mother calls me last night at probably 0300 hours her time to tell me that my father has found me the love of my life, who apparently is a former conscript who now works as a farmer.”

“You? With a farmer?” Kirk asks.

“Oh, it gets better. She tells me if I don't like that one, he has a younger brother named Toffee or Tauvy or something. Can you believe that?”

John and Scorpius take their place at the table between Aeryn and Braca.

“You can tell your mother,” Kirk says, “that I'm not giving up my navigator so she can live on some farm.”

“Honestly, a farm? I wouldn't last an arn. I could barely stand growing up next to that awful vineyard.” She smiles apologetically across the table. “Sorry, Scotty.”

“You can mention alcohol around me, just dinna try to give me any... And besides I was never much of a wine-drinker.” He winks.

“How long's it been?” John asks.

“Sixty-eight days.”

John raises his glass. “Here's to sixty-eight more.”

“To sixty-eight more,” the table echoes.

“We're proud of you, Scotty,” McCoy says.

“Well, you know,” Scotty mumbles, his cheeks flushed. “One day at a time and all that...”

Kirk claps him on the shoulder. “It takes fortitude to go the long haul like that. Lasting change often comes gradually, I think sometimes we forget that.” He stares at Aeryn for the end of that sentence.

“Was that directed at me?” she asks.

“Maybe. You _are_ the only officer in the history of Starfleet to demand an immediate revision to uniform policy. And I might add, the only officer to stage a nude sit-in to get her way.”

“Wait,” John says. “What was that?”

“Aeryn didn't like the women's uniform, so she had half the crew get naked in protest,” Braca explains.

“Don't blame me for that,” Aeryn says.

“I wasn't blaming. I was merely stating the role your leadership capabilities played in revising the uniform code.”

“You are just a hopeless brownnoser, aren't you?” McCoy asks.

Braca shrugs. “I've learned to accept it.”

“So.” Crichton smiles down at Aeryn. “You were naked?”

“She was naked and I was about to have a heart attack,” Kirk says.

“That's a common reaction,” Aeryn says.

“You have no idea. I thought Mr. Spock was going to have a Vulcan conniption fit right on the bridge. You know...” Kirk lowers his voice. “I think you were the first women he'd ever seen naked.” Kirk chuckles. “Stark was certainly the first Banik any of us had seen nude. _That_ was a learning experience.”

“Where _is_ Stark?” Scotty asks. “Shouldn't he be gettin' underfoot right about now?”

“Stark is accompanying Mr. Spock on a vision quest on Wrigley's Pleasure Planet.”

“A vision quest? _On Wrigley's?_ ” McCoy asks.

“Apparently, it's a rare opportunity, only comes up every seven years. They'll be out for over a week doing it.”

“That's why I'm out of engineering,” John says to Scotty. “I'm helping Scorpius with the―” He taps the side of his head. “―while Stark is gone. Because, apparently, 'acting ensign' means 'do whatever the hell your superior officer tells you no matter how weird.'”

“That's actually what any rank in Starfleet means,” Aeryn says.

“Some life that we've chosen,” McCoy grumbles.

“Some like _you've_ chosen,” John says, “I got drafted.”

“Caveman,” Scorpius starts, “if you knew the strings I had to pull to get the admiralty to even consider allowing you to stay on board, you would―” Scorpius hisses, spitting like that cat of his.

“Lieutenant Scorpius,” the Russian kid who looks a little like Davy Jones but taller says, backing away from Scorpius, “I am so sorry. I did not mean to bump into you.”

“It's quite all right, ensign. My head is just very sensitive to trauma.”

“I know. I'm so sorry. I have read your patent.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I found it very interesting.”

Scorpius nods. “Would you like a seat?”

His eyes boggle at the sheer number of senior officers sitting at the table. “I would, but I am supposed to eat with Mr. Sulu and Miss Uhura.” Both were hovering behind him, craning their necks to find any open tables in the crowded mess hall. Lunch rush could be a hazmot.

“They can come and sit here, if they'd like,” Kirk says.

“Really?”

“Sure. If that's all right with Aeryn. This is her table.”

“Of course.” She smiles down at Crichton. “The more the merrier.”

–

Coda:

“Admiral Pike?”

He turns away from his holo-document. “Yes?”

“I have someone on subspace who would like to talk to you about applying to the Academy.”

“Not my division, yeoman. Reroute their call to admissions.”

“Uh, sir, this is a very _special_ applicant... I think you'd want to talk to them directly.”

“Alright. Put them on the viewscreen.”

“Aye, sir.” Tamura presses a few buttons and the screens pops on.

Chris' wheelchair jolts back about a half an inch, responding to his shock. (That kid is way too smart for his own good.) This is definitely not what he had been expecting. Dampening his surprise enough to select a tone of voice that sounds properly authoritarian, he says, “Admiral Pike. What can I do for you?”

He―at least, Chris thinks it's a he―blinks. “Moya and I are very interested in matriculating at Starfleet Academy next term.”

_Goddamn, this really is the final frontier._


End file.
